


The Emperor and the Fishmonger's Son

by Jaune



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, D/s undertones, Drama & Romance, Epic, F/M, Fables - Freeform, Fairytale elements, Family Feels, Gen, M/M, Manipulative John Watson, Manipulative Sherlock, Secret of Birth, butchery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-02 02:51:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 37,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14535078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaune/pseuds/Jaune
Summary: Based loosely on the Punjabi fairytale, The Snake Prince.John, having grown up a simple peasant, knew everything he was capable of becoming by age ten. He knew his sphere. A merchant, a soldier, a doctor, yes.Emperor's Consort? No.No.But as it turns out, John is not a simple peasant, and... the situation sort of snowballs from there.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic, so I'm not really sure what I should say or expect. I don't know how long this will be, because I've never written anything like this before. It will probably end up being pretty long, seeing as the characters tend to hijack my plot outline and take their leisurely time getting to my actual plot points, but hey... I'm not bitter.  
> Let me know if you have any questions or suggestions. Or if you see any glaring errors. :-) Beta'd by Dzgenesis. <3

_Once upon a time…_

John’s little legs were ablur as he scurried to catch up to Harry who, being eight years older and in her tween years (which included a number of new attitudes, with a consistently overlying mood of impatience), hurried to catch their father. The lush green grass and soft moist soil cushioned his pounding feet, though it caused him to slip every so often. To John’s immature and admiring eyes, his sister seemed to glide across the flora gracefully, every step sure and quick. 

John would be that graceful, too, he vowed to himself. When he was bigger. John was too little now, but that was okay.

Harry’s long legs, long in comparison to John’s only since their family was a collection of somewhat small people, carried her ahead without any kind thought for her five year old brother’s panting breaths behind her. 

“Harry! Harry, wait!” John repeated the command he had been attempting to issue his sister for the last few breathless minutes.

Harry slowed a bit but did not spare a glance over her shoulder for her brother. “’Harry, wait! Oh, Harry’ –John, I told you to stay home. Father is teaching me our family trade today and you’ll just get in the way. As always!”

John’s shrill childish voice cut through his panting breaths. “But I can learn, too! Papa said I could come as long as I promised not to fall in.”

“Ugh!” Harry threw up her hands and continued on, stomping towards her destination. They were headed for the bank of the Sutlej river where her father had docked his small boat. It was too far yet for them to see it, but they were not far from the shore. It had rained the day before, but most of the moisture had been absorbed by the marshlands and the banks of the river had fortunately not flooded.

“One day I’m going to be even bigger than you, Harry!” 

Harry was used to the untraceable leaps of John’s five year old jumps of logic and barely blinked at the non sequitur. 

“Psh, yeah right. You’re a runt.” 

There was an uncharacteristic silence behind Harry, punctuated only by the soft susurrus of their steps in the almost-mud. 

“Yeah…” 

Harry dark eyes widened almost comically. She was so surprised by the dejection in the response that she stopped walking immediately and turned to stare at her brother. “What do you mean, ‘Yeah’? You’re not going to fight back?” 

John seemed to be feeling a mix of emotions—slightly thrown by their sudden stop and also a bit depressed as he remembered the conversation he had with his friends, the neighborhood boys, a few days ago—which flitted over his young, unlined face. Embarrassed, he self-consciously raised one of his fists to his mouth to suck on, as was his nervous habit.

John mumbled around his fingers. “Mik said I’m a runt, too. Everybody said it so that means it’s true, I guess…” 

“Don’t let people push you around just because they’re bigger and louder than you! You tell Mik to keep his mouth shut unless he wants your sister to put her fist in it! And get your fingers out of your mouth. They’re dirty.” Harry’s face had suffused with color as her tirade continued, her cheeks reddening like the ripening plums that grew on one of the trees near their home. John admired his sister’s fierceness and the spark of a ready fight simmering in her eyes. 

He was going to be just like her someday. When he was bigger.

“I can do it myself, Harry!” John said belligerently. He walked up to Harry, finally even with his sister now that they had stopped.

“Well you’d better! Nobody messes with Wat’s sons!” John knew by now not to question his sister saying she was a boy. Whether she identified as his sister or brother seemed to change with the wind. All that was constant—and all that truly mattered to John—was that he was always her favorite (and only!) little brother.

They walked on for a few moments in silence, the sun beating down on their necks and glimmering in the sweat on John’s forehead and Harry’s exposed back. Through they were still walking at a swifter pace than he was used to, John was finally beginning to catch his breath. A deer, grazing on the plain nearby, paused and looked at them before it decided they were not a threat and resumed indulging in the foliage.

“I’m hungry.”

“And as I said, already getting in the way. As always!” Harry’s voice was petulant but she reached inside of the sash she had wrapped around her waist. Her hand emerged with two peaches. She handed John one and kept the other for herself. “I’ve brought almonds, too, for later. I want to share some with papa, so don’t eat everything!”

John grinned. He loved sweet peaches, and this one was juicy and ripe. 

Harry laughed at his big smile and teased him, “It’s weird that you like peaches so much.”

John looked harassed. “No, it’s not!” As all other times when his sister teased him, becoming petulant was John’s default response.

“Your face is just one big peach. You’re a big peach, John!” Harry tugged at the sleeve of his shirt with a laugh.

“Well, you’re a plum!” At this, Harry’s expression mirrored John’s harassed one. The two stared at each other for a moment, still, before simultaneously bursting into laughter.

Despite John’s enthusiasm, Harry finished her peach first. She tucked the pit into her sash and said, “Don’t throw the seed away. We can plant them later.”

“Really?” John looked up at her, shocked, then back down to the peach pit which he eyed dubiously. “Is this really a seed?”

A quick smile tugged up one corner of Harry’s mouth. “Of course, moron. Where do you think peach trees come from?”

“Papa said fruit trees are from the gods! That’s why bad mages put spells on them and we can’t eat from just any tree. Because they all look the same.”

Harry rolled her eyes. 

“Well duh, everything is from the gods. But they give us new seeds so that we can plant the trees for ourselves. So that we can have even more peaches.”

John kept his seed.

They reached the shore of the Sutlej and began walking along it. There were a few boats that they passed, but Harry confirmed John that none of them were their father’s. They were all too small, she told him. They approached a small, empty rowboat that was anchored by two nearby bushes. John ran ahead of Harry to peer into the boat. She let him look his fill but scolded him loudly when he made to climb into the boat for a closer look at the oars. Harry was so loud, John would swear that he heard her voice echo across the nearby plains. 

To be fair, Harry was the loudest person that John knew. She was louder than even their father. On market days their father, Wat, allowed Harry to do most of the calling to customers since her bellowing voice was brash and high-pitched, carrying clear to the other side of the market and cutting sharply through the clamor of the marketplace’s assorted noises like the peal of a cymbal. If John yelled as loud as he could, his family could hear him from across the house. In the market, they could barely hear him across their stand. John was sure that if Harry yelled, he could hear her across the entire district. 

One day, John would be as loud as Harry. As loud and as bright. When he was bigger.

They were passing a lone tree, crooked and leaning, looking one strong wind away from falling into the Sutlej and being swept away. John looked into it and froze in fear. Harry was perplexed by her brother’s behavior and stopped beside him. 

She followed his frightened gaze to the tree. “What is it, John?” Though she didn’t need an answer because she saw it then. John remained silent but slipped his tiny hand into hers, holding tight. 

It would not have even given Harry pause but John was so much smaller than her, so she supposed it made sense… “It’s just a baz, John. It won’t hurt you.” The hawk had been watching them approach, beady predator’s eyes locked on the siblings above the vibrant red stripe of its breast. The bird was roughly half the size of John. John’s gaze never wavered from it and he squeezed Harry’s hand tighter.

Harry huffed. “Give me your seed,” she said. 

John kept his eye on the bird as he placed the pit in Harry’s free left hand. She too looked up at the bird, took a moment to aim, and threw the pit. It disappeared into the leaves of the branch above the bird, causing them to rustle and the bird to startle. It took flight without hesitation. John had not realized he had been holding his breath, but now he released it in relief and took a deep breath. He looked up at Harry in amazement. She was smiling down at him, fond. It was good to have a big sister, John thought. Or a big brother.

“See, it’s gone now. You were brave.” Harry was still smiling.

“Will it come back?” John asked. “You missed.”

John could see a boat in the distance. He wondered if that was his father’s boat. 

Harry huffed and looked sideways at John. “I didn’t miss. I only wanted to scare it away, not hurt it. It wasn’t the bird’s fault that you didn’t like it. Why would I hurt it just for that?” 

John was brave. He knew he was brave, but one day he would be brave like Harry. When he was bigger.

Harry suddenly flung his hand away and yelled, “Race you, brat!” Then she was already yards ahead of him, kicking up the soft clay in her wake. John sped off to catch up. Harry, with her much longer legs, beat him to the boat while he was still a considerable distance behind her. She disappeared onto it.

John could hear his father’s voice as he approached the boat. 

“Are those my children?” Wat asked, though the tone of his voice said he already knew the answer.

“Wat’s sons are here!” Harry crowed, emerging from the side of the boat, dragging a plank.

“Wat’s sons are here! Wat’s sons are here!” John echoed her as she leaned the plank against the side of the ship, steadied it, and began to walk up. She alighted at the top for only a moment before she was coming back down after a “Help your brother” from their father. 

“Ugh, come on, hurry up, John!” she complained as she grabbed his wrist, pulling him up so quickly that his shorter legs could barely stay under him. His father’s boat looked about twice as big as their house, which John had nothing to compare to but the homes of his friends, which were all about the same size.

“Now that you’re both aboard, I can push off,” Wat said, hefting the plank on board and pushing it aside. Wat let down the sails but there was not much wind. They drifted slowly out into the river.

“Are you going to use that… that thing,” Harry asked, “That wind-maker thing?” She pointed to a contraption that John had not noticed until that moment. He had never seen anything like it before. Made of a medium colored wood, though a different wood than the ship, it appeared to be a contraption comprised of a large funnel, a bellows, a pulley system, and a wooden handle.

Wat eyed John for a moment, but then he looked back over at Harry and shook his head. “Let’s not today. I was trying to finish up patching these nets before you two got here. I’ll finish up with those while you two fill that big basin with water.”

Harry walked over to the basin, clearly having done this before. Wat beckoned to John and then walked over to join her.

“Take this bucket,” Wat took a bucket from Harry’s hands to show it to John, “and throw it into the river. Pull up the water and dump it in there.” Wat threw the bucket overboard and then indicated the shallow basin that took up a third of the main deck.

“That’s for the fish to swim in while we take them back.” Harry told John sagely.

John looked back to his father, who was demonstrating the correct way to pull the bucket up so that John and Harry wouldn’t hurt their backs.

“Let Harry do most of the lifting since she’s older than you, John. You just hold that rope steady so she doesn’t drop it.” John patted John on the head and gave Harry’s shoulder a brief touch before he went back across the deck to continue working on the net piled against the rim.

“Well come on then,” Harry shot over her shoulder, drawing John’s gaze away from their father. “You have to learn so that we can be the best team of fishers to ever have fished! They’ll talk about us far and wide!”

“Yeah!” John said, almost tumbling over face first in his hurry to pick up the slack rope.

By the time they had filled the basin, Wat had finished with his net and they had sailed out to a suitable depth to throw it.

Wat motioned for John to stand back as he instructed Harry, who mostly already knew what she was doing, on throwing the net overboard. She grunted as she hefted the net and put her entire weight behind the throw.

“Look at Harry!” John grinned and pointed, squealing up at his father. Wat smiled indulgently at John’s actions but never took his gaze from his daughter, standing precariously close to the edge of the deck.

John watched the intricate weave go flying and admired the brilliant colors of the shells and rocks weighted at the corners. He ran to the side to see the net sink, but the body of the net was already under the languid waves by the time he leaned over the edge of the boat.

John felt a sting of disappointment and looked behind him, at his papa. However, before John could complain about it, Harry’s hand landed on his shoulder and pushed him slightly across the deck.

John was perplexed for a moment until she pointed at the second net pooled against the rim of the deck. John released an excited bark of sound and raced over to it, followed more sedately by his amused father, who guided John through a throw of his own while Harry watched and cheered John on.

~~

After a few hours, Wat demonstrated how to pull the nets in.

“You see this dark rope here, John?” Wat tapped the knot of dark brown rope that was tied to a metal hoop in the deck.

John, a bundle of keen energy, bounded over to his father and grabbed a fistful of the fabric near his hip to stop his momentum. Harry approached more calmly.

“Yeah, papa?” John peered at the ropes tied to the side of the boat, blue eyes bright with curiosity.

“It’s attached to the net, and we’re going to use it to pull the net up. Hopefully it’s got a loooot of fish in it, right?”

“Yes!” John’s free hand clenched into a fist and he shook it in exhilaration.

“Harry, grab that other end. I’m going to show John how we reel the nets in. Step back and be careful, John. Watch closely.” Wat tugged on the two ropes closest to him. John watched as his father insinuated himself between the ropes and the deck. He twisted slowly, turning his body around while he gripped the net in loose circles around his waist. The net slowly rose out of the water.

Rivulets of water sped down the dark rope to rejoin with the river. John could not see the body of the net yet, but he was almost vibrating with the intensity of his anticipation.

Harry had taken the remaining two ropes and looped them around a post on the deck, pulling the rope using a different method since her muscles were not as strong as her father’s. Wat was going much slower than Harry, who was pulling and wrapping the rope as fast as she could, so that the net ascended evenly.

The net slowly crested the rim of the ship’s deck. All John could see was a riot of colors: turquoise as vibrant as beads he had seen in the market, violet as royal and rich as what he imagined the emperor’s robes would be, silver bright enough to blind, and little dots of vivid yellow peeking through the weave of the net like sunlight through lace.

“Fish! Harry look at all the fish! Papa! Papa!” John clenched both fists in excitement and jumped up and down while Wat slipped out of the loops of rope. The body of the net had formed into a roll, securing the fish on all sides. John though they were like the filling in a dumpling and giggled.

Harry unwrapped her side of the net from the pole. She and Wat began dragging the net over to the basin. Wat called John over to help. The three of them heaved the fish over the rim of the tub and into the basin, all the while John kept trying to get his fingers through the gaps of the net to feel the slick bodies of the fish as they moved.

The fish spilled out of the net and into the water of the basin. John marveled at them, while Harry and Wat’s nagging for him to be careful was just background noise like the hum of cicadas. The colors were amazing but the sizes, too. He had seen some of the big fish that his father and the other fishmongers brought to market, but none of them had been alive, twisting and writhing and splashing like the ones in front of him. The colors were amazing, but the sizes were, too, ranging from the fish as big as John to some as small as his hands. In that moment, John truly could imagine growing up and being a fisherman, side by side with Harry, seeing and feeling this every day. John thought it must be the best trade in the whole world.

John leaned forward even further and slipped before anyone could grab him.

“Don’t—John!”

John couldn’t tell whose voice it was, but for a moment he was there with the wriggling bodies, subsumed by them but also one with them, just another squirming being in the fresh and cool river water. He held his breath as a large fish’s powerful tail hit him in the face, drenching his front in water from his hair to the neckline of his shirt. The next moment, his father’s hands were hooking beneath his arms, gathering him up and out of the water, and he was leaving his newfound fish-brethren behind.

“John, I told you to be careful,” Wat said with a frown as he beckoned to Harry, who was already on her way back to them with a canvas tarp. Wat set John on his feet and wrapped the tarp around his drenched son.

Harry glared down at John. “You promised not to fall in!” she accused.

“I didn’t fall in the river!” John yelled back.

“Can’t you just not fall into anything at all, you little ninny?!” Harry screeched.

John just stuck his bottom lip out and glared up at his sister, expression mutinous.

“Alright, Harry, that’s enough,” Wat said, mostly successful with smothering his chuckles though not his smile, “John was just excited. He won’t do it again, right John?”

Wat looked to John. “That was very dangerous, John. I know you want to learn about the fish, but some of these fish bite. You have to be careful, boy. Here, sit still and wait for us to get the other net, then I’ll teach you about the fish that we caught today.”

John shot Harry a look from beneath his lashes. While he had not expected to fall in, the water had been cool and comfortable. Being inside of the basin, fighting against the mini-currents caused by the other writhing bodies in the water was… refreshing. For a moment, John had felt as if it must be the best moment of his life. Harry, on the other hand, was looking plum-like again. His papa also looked a little shaken, so John decided he would try not to fall into the basin again. Still… no matter how much Harry glared or yelled, John refused to regret it. 

John settled down, and watched his father gather the other net himself. Harry sat by John’s side instead of helping, glaring at him for the entire time that it took Wat to pull the net in.

Wat returned to them and sat cross-legged on the deck. He went to pull Harry down to cuddle next to him but Harry balked, crying that she was too old to sit in his lap. Wat laughed and pulled John down instead. Harry settled herself in against Wat’s side to stare at the fish with them. Wat angled his head down to speak in John’s direction.

“There are 55 different types of fish that live in the rivers in this area. Can you count that high?”

John shook his head. Wat wrapped his strong arms around John to keep the wet boy warm and then began to point out the fish in the basin, distinguishing the clams and oysters first.

“What’s that one?” John asked, wriggling enough to free his arm so that he could point at a fish that was a bit larger than his hand. Its head and tail were a deep purple, but most of its body was a speckled yellow gradient. It had an odd red speck near its gill that reminded John of the sun spots Harry and his papa had across their noses.

“That’s a wrasse, son. They come in a lot of different colors and are some of the most colorful fish out here.” Wat answered indulgently.

John hesitated for a moment, unsure whether the thought he wanted to voice was appropriate. “… I want to eat it.”

Wat exploded in laughter so raucous that John, still sitting in his lap, was rocked from one side to the other with the strength of it.

Harry’s mouth trembled like she wanted to laugh also, but she held it back and renewed her glare at John.

“Oh relax, Harry” Wat said, after he had calmed down and was wiping away the tears his delight had left behind, “or you’ll start looking like that one.”

Wat pointed to another fish, this one pink and flat with red eyes. Unlike most of the other fish, it was parallel to the bottom of the basin, its flat face and body giving the entire fish a squashed and disgruntled appearance.

At that, the entire family burst into giggles and Harry began an animated explanation, between chuckles, of how she had been likened to a fruit that morning as well. This led to a retelling of their entire morning—paraphrased, thankfully—though John could not help bouncing on his father’s lap and chattering anxiously when they told Wat about the baz.

“It sounds to me like you were both very brave,” Wat acceded, warm gaze lingering on both of his children.

“We had to throw the seed,” John muttered, disappointment lacing his voice, “so we can’t plant a peach tree.”

“Well, actually, I only threw yours. I still have mine,” Harry said smartly, reaching into her sash and pulling out the pit. “Oh! And here, papa, I brought some almonds too, in case we got hungry.”

John, overjoyed, leapt out of his father’s lap and tackled his sister in a hug, who just barely saved herself from spilling the almonds all across the deck. Harry just laughed.

“Careful there, John. I’m mighty hungry and if I don’t get to eat some almonds I may have to eat a little boy instead,” Wat said, pseudo-menacing as he held out his hand for the almonds. “Why, it looks like there are enough here for all of us. Why don’t we have a snack and break before we start heading back?”

“Mom would have loved this,” Harry said wistfully, a little later, looking out at the sun setting as Wat maneuvered the boat back to the shore.

John had never known their mother; she had died while birthing John. Though he had never met her, she was still such an important part of their family—mentioned often enough at home and with her belongings still scattered here and there around their cottage like pearls on the ocean floor—that her presence had never really faded. 

John loved hearing every tale his family spun about her and missed her though he only knew her by who and what she had left behind.

One of her keepsakes was kept on a shelf near the door, a small brass figurine that looked like a rabbit, her namesake. A wooden box sat next to it, an heirloom passed down through Wat’s side of the family. His father and Harry touched it when they came into the house each day, and his father always made a point of holding John’s hand while he did so. They stopped at the nearby ice house, where John watched avidly as his father paid to store the fish there. It had only taken moments before they resumed their journey home. 

John held his Wat’s hand as they made their way home. The sun was still setting. Twilight was almost upon them, and the waning rays of sun shone bright red and orange across the grassy plains the family walked over. John squeezed Wat’s hand and leaned more of his weight against his father, focusing more on the play of light over the fauna around him.

There were bushes along the plain, but few trees. The only trees present were fruit tree and had clearly been planted purposefully. A ditch ran parallel to the path they walked. Runoff water from the fields was gathered into a slowly draining stream, so slow the water was almost stagnant. Little insects lay on the water or were buzzing around it, their wings adding to the constant hum that was always in the background of John’s neighborhood.

John came back to himself when his feet crossed from the lush soft grass to the hard, dusty clay of the street they lived on. John lived in a relatively busy district, though not so busy as the neighboring district that held a bustling marketplace. The dirt beneath his feet had been packed down hard by numerous feet over many years. They passed his friend Mik’s home, and then their direct neighbors, Muhammad and his wife, Chala. 

Chala was older than Harry but younger than John’s own father. Now, she stood on the small stoop in front of her house, holding her newborn wrapped loosely in a colorful strip of fabric. John had only seen the baby once before, on her name day, where there had been more desserts on the table than John had ever seen outside of the market. 

Muhammad had been vocally disappointed about having a daughter instead of a son, Harry had been even more vocal in addressing this, and John’s father had been the mediator as the grown man stood up to argue with a preteen girl. Harry got into all sorts of scuffles, verbal and physical, and the only reason John remembered this particular one is because he had been allowed to eat as much of the sweets on the table as he had wanted.  
Chala had seen John attempting to eat his own weight in desserts, but she had been in an indulgent mood, and the other guests had simply not cared at all. Most importantly, his father was too distracted to stop him. 

Wat had been distracted for most of the night, since Harry had been mistakenly given the wine that the adults had been drinking. Of course, Harry had been able to tell that it tasted funny immediately, which only made her drink it all the faster. She had managed to finish most of it before Wat had noticed and, since she had been only twelve at the time, was uproariously drunk. Harry, at the best of times, was like a firecracker lit indoors. Tipsy, she was… better? Worse?

John giggled at the thought and the results of Harry’s antics that night. His father looked down at him quizzically, though he did not pause in greeting Chala. 

“How was the fishing today? Were you on the Beas river? I heard there was some flooding.” Chala asked his father, though she took a moment to look down and stroke the fuzzy wisps of hair over her baby’s forehead. The strands looked soft and thin, like black feathers, and curled prettily around Chala’s fingertips.

“No, the Sutleg. We had a good day and according to the moon calendar predictions, the current on the Chenab should be favorable tomorrow. I’ll be throwing my nets out around there. Well—” here Wat wrapped an arm around Harry’s shoulders and gave them an affectionate squeeze, “we will, if these two decide to come with me again. It was really great having them on board with their old dad, even if their energy for teasing each other does seem endless.”

“Much like your patience,” Chala said, smiling.

The adults laughed at that, and Chala’s fingers settled into stillness cupping the side of her baby’s head.

They had named the baby Jaituna, olive, after the empress. The baby’s face had been uncovered and John thought she looked like a person, but… squished. John was fascinated. Before her, he had never seen anyone smaller than himself. Even Mik, who was small for his age but a year older than John, was taller and broader.

Chala, finished greeting Wat, smiled down at John, “And you’re getting big there, John!”

“No…” John was more than a bit shocked at how she seemed to know exactly what he had just been thinking. 

Sometimes it seemed like adults had the uncanny ability to know what he was thinking, more specifically when he was about to get himself into trouble, and even more specifically when the adult doing the knowing was his father. 

Chala was pretty and nice, though, and—overcome by a surge of momentary embarrassment—John clung to his father’s pants leg and tried to hide his face behind it. There was not enough slack in the fabric, so he was only able to successfully hide one eye, which embarrassed him even more. As he felt his face heat with his blush, both Harry and Chala chuckled at his behavior. 

His father gave him another indulgent smile and ruffled John’s blond hair so that some fell into his eyes. Wat offered to take any letter or parcel to Chala’s parents tomorrow, who lived along the Chenab, before bidding farewell to Chala and moving onward.

As they approached their own home, Harry—with her patently boundless energy—released a woot and skipped ahead to their front door. 

“Wat’s sons are home!” She barely paused a moment to cursorily scrape some of the mud off of her sandals before shoving the door wide open. 

The inside of the house was shadowy and dark, barely lit at all with the spotty light from the setting sun. It was too late for the sun to illuminate much, but too early for the moon’s rise. 

Harry stopped at the shelf inside of the door, gave the wooden box a gentle tap, and hurried inside to begin lighting the candles.

John was a bit tired after the long day he had, chasing after Harry and trying to keep his balance on the boat, swimming with the fish—well, falling into a tub with them—and cuddling up with his father smelling of salt, sun, and the river. Wat released John’s hand so that he could light the lamp above their front door. John leaned into his father’s leg and grabbed a handful of fabric to stabilize himself. 

When the lamp was lit, Wat turned to John.

“Come, John,” Wat said, stepping over the threshold. “No, wait.” 

Wat paused briefly before he turned to John, who had not yet crossed the threshold.

“You know how we touch this box every day when we come into the house, John. Do you know why?” Wat’s voice was light, but the tone was serious, which told John that this was something important.

John did not know why, though. Because papa said? Because Harry did it? He gazed up at the box on the shelf, a pale brown with a glossy finish, and pondered. He raised his fingers to his lips in nervous habit. “Mmm…”

Wat took mercy on the boy and answered for him, “Because we might touch something outside that has a curse or a spell on it, without knowing. Our family is special. Magic does not work on us the same way that it works on other people. You probably won’t be exposed to magicks throughout the day since we are so far from the palace and never around any magic-wielding nobles. 

“Still, it’s better to be safe now rather than sorry later. For example, a curse for bad luck may not affect us, but give everyone around us bad luck instead. It can be very dangerous. Or… a spell to make a person taller could end up making you even shorter,” Wat smiled a knowing smile.

“No, papa! I don’t want to be even shorter! I want to be taller than you!” John exclaimed in denial.

“And that’s why our ancestors made this. When we touch it, it cancels out all the magic on us, and since we don’t have any of our own magic, it doesn’t hurt us. If you don’t, there is no telling what kind of effect it will have on you, or on me or Harry when we touch you. Do you understand why it is important, John?”

“I understand, papa.” John confirmed in a hushed voice. He would never do anything that could hurt his papa or his sister. Or make him shrink! 

What if a spell that was supposed to make him fly turned him into a rock, instead? The thought scared John. Even though he was brave, he didn’t want to end up as a rock or a frog or something gross.

“Even when you’re all grown up, you still have to be very careful, John. Don’t forget, okay?” Wat reached down for John. John raised his arms so that his father could lift him up, since he was not tall enough to reach the shelf on his own.

Once he was level with the box, he noticed the carving around the lip of the box. Tiny flowers woven intricately in a chain bloomed in a circumference around the box. There were small chips of colored glass inlaid in the wood for the petals and the leaves and vines had been painstakingly painted with a delicate green dye. The blossoms, though miniscule, looked almost lifelike. The shine that reflected from the bits of glass made them look dew-kissed, like John had seen the grass and bush flowers were just after dawn.

John hesitated for a moment but then reached out a hand and briefly laid it on the wooden box. The wood was smooth and cool beneath his hand.

“I promise, papa.”

Wat, who was behind John and outside of his line of sight, had been tense, but at this he smiled in relief. He gently lowered John to the ground.

“Very good, my son.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and the Fam run this marketplace ish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: off-screen non-graphic rape of a minor character (which I cried while writing, tbh), bullying, temporary character disability, unrequited love because Harry runs through these paramours like the Hulk runs through buildings
> 
> This is going up unbeta'd for now. Feedback is very welcome.

The morning was temperate but dry, the slight breeze blowing dust from the yard over John’s feet as he crossed the threshold of his home. 

Wat was waiting somewhat impatiently for him, having just crossed the barrier. They were on their way to the icehouse. Wat’s fish had been stored there last night, in preparation for market day. It was a family affair; the current division of labor was that Wat had sent Harry ahead to the marketplace to secure their stall, and he and John would retrieve their wares from storage. John, also, was keen to get going. 

Of the necessities that came with their family trade, market days were John’s favorite. He loved the active air of the place: music played erratically, hot food sold by food vendors, seeing the various wares of the neighboring stalls. Everything was so colorful, so vibrant, endlessly fascinating or familiar. He disliked how, on particularly warm days, they had to cover the fish and be mindful of the freshness. On windy days such as this one, the fish also needed protecting from dust and other airborne nuisances. It was tedious, but it was not as if he had many options. He was to be a fishmonger, as his sister was, and his father before her.

Yet, one particular object had arrested John’s attention as he departed, or rather, the memory had arrested him. He had touched the anti-magic box, as he had for the last eight years since his father had told him of their family’s blessing. Or should it be their family’s curse? As he had reached for it, he could suddenly picture the moment again in his mind’s eye, as clear as the day it had happened. His confusion, apprehension, and trust in his father had all warred inside of him. In hindsight, it had not really been a choice; he could not deny his family their safety if it was within his power, sure, but at five years old he simply could not deny the authority that his father had wielded in anything. His father had phrased it as a question, asking John to swear to join in their little family ritual, as a courtesy and because he was kind. 

Sometimes, John feared Wat was a little too kind. Everyone knew Harry had the tendency to run roughshod all over everything and everyone, and Wat—in his seemingly unending patience—mostly allowed her to do so. Harry had quite the reputation in their district and sometimes even beyond that. As much as John admired her, he had never enjoyed the way a stranger’s eyes turned wary at times, after realizing that John was Harry’s little brother. 

John stepped away from the door. He swung the door shut and latched it, making haste to reach his father, who was waiting for him near their fence. Once united, they began the short trek toward the icehouse to retrieve the fish they intended to sell at market that day.

As they walked down the street—in silence, it was too early for inane speech—John wondered if he had any say in his life’s direction at all. He was grateful for his home and his family, his ability to count and to read, which was more than some others had. Still, his future seemed slotted in place for him and had since his birth. He would become a fishmonger like his father. He would probably live in the same house until he got married, and then he would move to another house likely in the same district or one nearby. He would choose a wife from the village girls, of whom he had no particular interest, or even one of the village boys—though that was more uncommon and, more to the point, he thought most of them were idiots.

The boys and even a few of the girls—they were fun enough and playing at warfare in the streets with mudballs or dividing into teams for sports was entertaining, but… they were not clever. John knew them. He had known most of them for his entire childhood. There was nothing intriguing about them.

Being dull was certainly no crime, but… it just was not what John preferred.

Becoming a fishmonger was an aspect of his future that was also set in stone. Their home was beautiful, as was the feeling of freedom that flowed through John when he stood on the bow of his father’s ship as it pulled into the brisk wind of the rivers. The fish they pulled in were healthy and abundant. Laughing at his father’s corny jokes and poking fun at Harry’s expense made each trip out enjoyable. He and Harry made bets on which river would give the best yield every week. For all that Harry had been fishing for years before John, she was still pretty terrible at making predictions based on the weather and moon calendar, so John won a lot. He enjoyed that, too. It was all enjoyable, very enjoyable, enjoyable every time, and yet… at some moments it just all felt so tedious.

Being tedious was certainly no crime, and no real reason to change professions, but… it just was not what John preferred.

From the corner of his eye, John spotted movement. He turned his head to look fully and recognized his friend, Mik. Mik was hurrying out of his own front door, though much more hastily than John and his father had that morning. He had a leather satchel clutched in his hands, top flap hanging free and swinging wildly, about to spill all of its innards unbeknownst to the distracted teen. 

“Mik!” John called out, hailing his friend.

Mik looked up sharply at his name, though the look in his eyes was distracted. His eyes found John.  
“Ah! John!” Mik hurried over to them. “And, ah, Mr. Wat! Good morning to you both!”

Mik, who had never been much taller than John, had experienced a growth spurt of approximately an inch and a half in height, but considerably more inches in width. John was still waiting for his own growth spurt, and rather hoped he grew more than Mik had, and up instead of out. Mik’s face had filled out with the chubby look reminiscent of cherubs. It made him incapable of looking fierce. Even his glares, though they were few—he had mellowed some as he aged into his teen years, conversely to the rest of the adolescents in the neighborhood who seemed to aspire to be the next Harry, breathing fire and roaring loudly and being generally as irritable as a dragon—were not heavy like most glares. Personally, John felt that Mik’s sternest glare was akin to being glared at by a small river lizard, that is: small, without consequences, and unreasonably cute.

Mik joined their brisk walk and genially clapped John on the shoulder. John closed the satchel for him and Mik chuckled.

“Ha, I am kind of a mess this morning,” Mik said sheepishly.

“Well,” John said, and stopped. If he disagreed, he would be lying.

Wat replied, saving John from possibly annoying his friend. “It is a surprise to see you up and running out of your house. Your windows are usually still dark when we pass your home this early in the morning.”

“Oh, um, yes. My mother was recently able to convince the traveling doctor, Vihaan, to buy our old house and set up a practice,” Mik paused here, a little short of breath and unused to the swift pace the other two were setting. Wat noticed this and slowed a bit.

“Oh, yeah, I heard about that,” John said, and Wat nodded in agreement. “Papa was hoping to get some grease from him before he left, but he told us that he planned to be here for a while.”

“Yes, and he’s taken me on to be his apprentice,” Mik said, voice pitched higher in excitement. John, who had known Mik for years and never known him to have an interest in the medical field, assumed Mik’s mother had her hand in this, also. “I’ve just started yesterday and I’m learning so many interesting things. Nothing in depth yet, off course. Vihaan says that book learning is most important first.”

“Yes, I can imagine,” John said. 

John turned to look at his father, who he saw was looking ahead down the road. Sensing John’s gaze, Wat turned to look down at John, and gave him a rather vacant smile. 

“What have you been learning,” John asked, turning back to address his friend. “Anything that could be useful for us?”

“Oh, well, I don’t know.” Mik pondered for a moment. “I’ve only gone for a day, but yesterday we talked a lot about outdated healing practices, like bloodletting and ash tea medicine. I learned a little bit about leprosy and—”

“While that sounds stimulating, we really need to get the fish to the market before customers start coming through. I’ll go on ahead, John. You’ve been working very hard, lately. Why don’t you stay and talk to your friend a little more, then head straight to Harry?” Wat interjected before Mik could get momentum going. 

“Sure, thanks, papa.” John answered, and he and Mik watched Wat resume his quick steps toward the icehouse. 

Both boys watched Wat go for a moment. John turned back to Mik to continue where they had left off. Mik spoke up first, still looking after Wat’s distancing figure.

“Your papa’s pretty fit for an old man,” Mik commented. “Tall, too, not like us. I hope I grow to be that tall.”

“He’s not that old.” John was slightly offended on his father’s behalf, but not enough to sound defensive, “And yeah, he’s fit I guess, but you’re really just saying that because you get tired and out of breath so easily.”

Mik’s face began to redden in embarrassment, so John continued, quickly revising, “But honestly, that’s mostly because you’re always holed up in the temple or your room, reading books instead of getting any fresh air. I keep telling you to come and join our khuddo khoondi games so you’ll be used to more activity!”

Mik’s face seemed to cool a bit, but his reply had an acerbic tone, “Who wants to spend their whole day hitting a ball of rags with a stick, John? I want to know more about the world outside of our own district. I want to know what the emperor is doing, like… My parents have been arguing with each other, lately. My papa says we might be going to war, that one of the lords is so wealthy he might try to take over the whole empire.”

“What?” John asked, sharply. The entire empire? “No way… no way any one person has that much money!”

Mik shrugged and looked away. “My papa says. Mama disagrees. She says money is one thing, but power—” Mik gave John a sideways glance “— _magic_ , that’s a whole different thing.” 

The boys walked in silence for a few moments. Wat’s dislike of anything magic was well known among the families of John and Harry’s friends. Ironically enough, Wat’s wariness of enchantments led him to research them as much as possible, in order to know how to avoid them. Occasionally, a neighbor might come to ask Wat about a particular enchantment. Wat was always open to help them, though most of the conversations were hypothetical since Wat and all of his peers were peasants. Most of their neighbors lacked even the basic education that would allow them to work in a noble’s home, and since magic only belonged to nobility (or rather, anyone who had magic, which was hereditary, must have noble blood), they would rarely encounter any real magic.

The nearby temple allowed the neighboring citizens, including John’s family, borrow books freely. Few of the citizens were literate, and the temple possessed a vast number of books, so any book John wanted was usually in stock and at his disposal. Because of this, John’s family had little cause to own any books themselves. The few books they did own were Wat’s and were exclusively about different branches of magic, spells, and enchantments.

John cleared his throat and resumed the conversation, “Well, anyway. I guess we’ll see what happens. What were you saying about leprosy?”

“Oh, yeah!” Mik visibly perked up at the notion of returning to his future profession, “So, our district is pretty much untouched by it, and Vihaan thinks that’s because our water source is shared with the castle and a lot of other nobles’ homes. Vihaan says leprosy is a big problem in a few of the other districts, though. It can get pretty bad, and people try a lot of home remedies or try to make medicines themselves because there aren’t enough doctors to go around. He was happy I came to learn. Doctors can’t cure diseases fast enough and they’re spreading so quickly. We covered some treatments, such as bloodletting, like I mentioned before. Also, cholera! We talked about cholera! People have been trying to make their own medicinal tea, but it can’t just be anything, and they’ve been doing it wrong—” 

John let Mik ramble on in that way until they were outside of the doctor’s residence, a building that had previously belonged to Mik’s family. After seeing Mik inside, John started his journey to the market which, conveniently, was not far.

When John was getting close to the market, he began to hear the din of people setting up for the day. It was early morning, and the sun had not yet fully risen. The quiet of the night was still primarily undisturbed since most citizens still slept, so whatever noises did pollute the tranquil air tended to carry.

The marketplace itself was one long street, wider than most others. There were buildings on each side, inns, apothecaries, and other merchants of the like. In front of those permanent shops, other sellers set up temporary stands to sell their wares on certain days, such as Wat and his children did. 

Most stalls were set in front of complimentary shops. The farmer’s stand was set in front of the bakery, who was able to take things from the stand and improve their own offerings, for example. There was a merchant selling beads and bolts of fabric set in front of a tailor and a stall selling imported teas in front of one of the streets few restaurants. John’s family’s stall was in front of a leather tanner, one of the few shops who thankfully wouldn’t complain about the smell of dead fish since the scent of the skins inside was already so strong.

Though, honestly, the time had long since passed where they could truly be called children. John was 15, growing closer to manhood with the wane of every moon. John had even heard that, in lands west of his own, boys John’s age could already be promised to marry. He shuddered at the thought. Harry, whose voice was still loud enough to crack coconuts still on the tree, was 23 and still unmarried. John was, in turns, both grateful and annoyed. Surely, she would leave home when she married, he hoped, but then wondered if he would miss her. He had no idea since he had never truly been without her considerate, warm, and often obnoxious presence. 

Some days, John wondered what their home would be like without her always pushing them around, their father specifically, who sometimes got fairly melancholy when left on his own. Sometimes, when he thought no one was looking, Wat slumped and wilted like vegetables left too long in the sun, as if he was exhausted simply by the weight of living. So, John worried for his father and blessed Harry’s nagging, some days. Other days… honestly, he just wished someone would come and get her.

As John approached Harry, he noted that she had mostly finished setting the stall up. It leaned to one side more heavily since the posts that supported it were set unevenly in the ground. John went behind their stand to retrieve the trestles in which the fish would lay, to set them on top of the stand.

“It’s crooked,” John said, unable to resist nagging his sister where he could.

“Shut up, brat,” Harry glared good-naturedly over her shoulder as she threw the thick cloth tarp on the frame above their heads. The tarp would provide shade for them and the fish if the sun got too overbearing. 

“Hey, you think it’ll be windy enough to need to let the side flap down?” John asked, eyeing it from where he stood need the table.

“Let the side flap down, John,” Harry said in a put-upon voice, as if John had not just asked that exact question.

Yeah, someone come and get her, John thought peevishly, as he moved to fix the tarp. Come and get her _right now._

About an hour passed before John saw his father coming down the lane with the icehouse’s cart. The sun had just begun to peek over the horizon, and the rays shone brilliantly warm tones of red and purple across the dirt of the marketplace. 

Wat stopped the cart in front of their stand and John and his sister moved as one to begin unloading the fish. They packed ice into the into the trestles on the table and then pressed the fish in over it, careful to arrange their wares by type and size. Wat had a leather belt around his waist, a gift from the thankful tanner, that held most of the utensils he needed to clean and cut the fish to the customers’ orders.

Not long after they had finished setting up, the day’s first customers arrived. The wind picked up as the day went on, and the sun climbed higher in the sky, so John adjusted the side tarp more than once to protect the fish from drying out or getting dusty.

One of John’s favorite parts of the days he went to the market was the food. It was so varied because the established restaurants that resided on the street served very different fare than the vendors who lined the street with their stalls. The restaurants offered food for families, multiple courses including tea and dessert. The vendors often walked the length of the street multiple times, peddling their wares to passerby. Some sellers were so aggressive that they almost shoved the parcels into customers’ mouths, eager to share their food with others.

John waited impatiently for the sun to be high enough in the sky that he could beg some lunch money from his father and procure some street food. When Wat’s own stomach growled loud enough for John and Harry to hear it, John spoke over Harry’s raucous laugh.

“Papa, can I have some money to get us some lunch? I’m hungry, too.”

“Me, too,” Harry said, serious of a sudden. “I’m starving.”

Wat laughed at his children, but he then picked some money from their till and handed it to John.

“Yes!” John exclaimed in joy. He wasted no time in running off down the street to find his favorites.

John made his way around the food stalls efficiently. He knew what he was looking for, and how to haggle in order to get the most food for his money. 

Sometimes Harry beat John to the punch at lunch time, and John had to eat whatever she had decided to buy for him. Often, even though she did not care enough to get John’s favorites, she came back with a wealth of food. More than one of the street vendors was sweet on her, and two of them were food vendors. John planned to use this to his advantage. He stopped by a vendor he had seen staring calf-like after Harry.

“Hey, there,” John said casually, “I’m John, Harry’s brother. She’d like some of your samosas.”

The man’s head shot up comically, but John was able to repress his smirk and smother his laughter. He had known this would be easy, but he had not expected it to be quite this easy.

“Harry’s brother, you say?” The young man shot a sideways glance over to their stall, where Harry was haggling with a customer. She was smiling and her dark hair glinted red in the sunlight. 

Harry was alright, if that’s what one liked, John allowed with a mental snort. John had not seen her from this angle all day, and only just now noticed that she had a dark smear underneath her ear. Probably a mishap when playing with dye at a friend’s house… kind of silly, but John looked back at the food vendor and, sure enough, he was gazing fixedly at her as if he had been struck dumb.

“Say, if you want, I can put in a good word for you?” John murmured and, by the grateful look on the vendor’s face, John’s work here was done. 

Just don’t drool in my samosas, John silently implored, and everything will go perfectly.

All in all, after making his way around to a few stands, John only had to spend money at the dessert stand. Even that was discounted, since the stall owner recognized that John’s father was also frequently at market, and simply asked for a discount for himself later. John returned to the stall with a packet of samosas, a dumpling-like filled parcel with minced lamb and vegetables inside—his favorite, and aloo tikki, a fried croquette made primarily of potato and curd, and spiced with onions and mint chutney—one of his father’s favorites. 

One of the vendors had offered to deep fry some of their fish for them, if they would share with the vendor, and John promised he would relay the message to his father. In addition to all of that, one of the vendors, a young woman who worked at the nearby temple and blushed more than anyone else John had ever met, had sent Harry a love package of mutton tikka—and John could not help but be a little jealous. Why didn’t he have paramours who sent free food—and some kebabs, though John had run out of space to carry them and had shoved the ends of them into his mouth instead. He did not think Harry would want them after that treatment, and John giggled internally as he imagined her annoyed reaction.

John carried the food back to the stand. Though there was a veritable mountain of food, the three of them demolished it speedily. There were no leftovers and, when they had finished, Harry embarrassed them all by slowly sucking her fingers. John thought it was childish and immature, but then he noticed the behavior had drawn the eye of a fair few people in the market. 

Wow, get some water for these parched souls, John thought. They look so thirsty, they may just pass out.  
Amused at this, John mockingly sucked his fingers in imitation. He was slightly shocked when he drew a few gazes, as well, and he ripped his fingers from his mouth immediately but could not entirely hide his blush.

After lunch, they did a bit more business. At least half of their fish was gone, John surmised. Suddenly, Harry pointed down the street, a quizzical expression on her face. Turning to where she pointed, John saw a man running down the street. He was distinguishable as a herald because he wore the livery of a noble house, and John could see the paladin that presumably carried the noble trundling slowly along further down the street. 

“What is it, papa?” Harry asked.

John looked away from the herald to notice his father had straightened and was standing stiffly. His solemn gaze was directed at the herald, who did not notice.

“Make way, make way!” The herald shouted. “The lord Tufaena approaches!”

Wat came to quickly stand between his children and put an arm around each shoulder. The bustle of the marketplace had grown as still as it could do, in the middle of the day. Everyone had slowed and moved to the side of the road, watching as the paladin made its approach.

“Why do you think he’s even here?” John asked. 

John had only twice seen a noble come to the marketplace. John did not know much of nobles or royalty except for the stories he had read in temple books or heard by gossip. Even with only that, he could tell that the ones who came to the marketplace on their own were the poorer sort. More usually, they sent their servants. 

This one, though, had a beautifully made paladin. Figures and creeping vines were etched into the sides. It reminded John uncomfortably of their family heirloom. Could such things be bought so casually by those of this class? 

“Perhaps the lord there is considering buying the marketplace,” Wat responded, hushed.

There were fixtures at the top, carved rods that were sturdy enough for the mages who sat at the top to hold on to while the lord rode beneath them, enclosed. One particular witch caught John’s eye. He had dark hair, neatly cropped short like John’s—once he had grown old enough to truly tire of it flopping into his eyes—though, in contrast, his deep brown eyes had a manic fire in them that made even John want to glance away in discomfort. The mage’s gaze swung in John’s direction and held. John thought the sorcerer may have been staring at him. Then he heard Harry gasp, too, and was not sure the man was actually looking at any of them individually. A chill ran down John’s spine, and he was suddenly very aware that neither he nor anyone else in the marketplace had the magic to counter any enchantment the man might cast over them.

When the paladin began to pass in front of their stall, John could see the lord, who must be lord Tufaena, inside. The interior was heavily shadowed, and so his form was vague, but John could see his eyes glinting in the darkness, surprisingly staring back out at John and his family. The lord tapped the side of the carriage, and their progress halted. He turned on his seat to face them. He was close enough that John could tell for certain—when lord Tufaena smirked, it was directly at John. John was so shocked that he flinched.

A laugh emerged from the carriage, sharp and cruel and cold, like a thief’s dagger. 

“Well,” lord Tufaena’s eyes flicked from John to Wat, but quickly back to John again, “if it isn’t the little bastard. I should have known you would grow up a runt.” 

Wat’s grip tightened on John’s shoulder, but John barely felt it. John had a father—he was right here, right by John’s side—so how could he be called a bastard? It was strange that this affluent person had addressed them directly, as well. John had never seen this type of noble before, never seen a lord so obviously rich and high-standing, so he did not know how to act or react and was frozen in place like most of the other people in the marketplace. Did this man really know them? No, he could not, since he had called John a bastard even though he did have a father. 

His father had not flinched at the insult, but instead met lord Tufaena’s gaze. His craned his head up towards his father, who was glaring at the lord. John did not know much about how to address nobles, but his father’s behavior seemed fairly impertinent.

Wat was so tense and clearly rattled, so something must really be wrong, no matter how much the slur did not make sense to John. John felt he must be missing something. As John had tilted his head up to view his father, he had the errant thought—not for the first time—that Wat was unfairly tall… unlike John. But no, no, it could not be. Wat was his father, John knew. He may not look much like his father but he had not grown fully into his features. He could yet look like Wat—he had years—and John definitely looked like Harry. There was no contesting that they were all related. 

So, why then, why was his father so tense? John realized that his thoughts were going in circles. He would simply have to ask his father, though he intuited that now was not an appropriate time, not with some strange lord gazing down on them like they were pets instead of people.

Tufaena tapped the side of the paladin and they resumed their progress. Once the carriage was mostly out of sight, Harry released her breath in a loud exhale. John turned toward his father.

“Papa, what—”

“Not now, John.” Wat’s voice was uncharacteristically curt, and his tone was hard. “Not now.”

Wat looked down at John from the corner of his eye and, for a moment, the look in his eyes was unrecognizable to John, foreign and shrewd. Then, Wat softened and sighed, bringing up a hand to cover his eyes. He gave John’s shoulder one last squeeze, in comfort this time, and then released him. He turned to busy himself with the fish and avoided eye contact with both John and Harry, who were watching him for any signs to explain his strange behavior, this strange collapse. Harry was looking askance at Wat, while John boldly stared. 

John tried to further rationalize what had just happened. That man had called him a bastard, but maybe he had been looking at Wat? No, he had definitely been looking at John. It didn’t make sense. It was nonsense. It was so much nonsense that John found himself suddenly breathless in the fervency of his denial. He tore his gaze away from his father to look back out at the street, where the marketplace activity was resuming.

Not now, his father had said.

Alright, John conceded. Not now. But later.

“Actually,” Harry mentioned, stiltedly, “I think I may have heard of that lord. Tupaina or something, right?”

Spirits save his sister, she was always terrible at names, John thought, heart lightening a little.

Harry caught John rolling his eyes and chuckled. 

“Anyway, he’s supposed to be super rich. I was told that he’s so rich, he basically bullied the emperor into betrothing the crown prince to his daughter. They’re so young, too! Way before the age even most royalty gets betrothed, I think, so Tupanda must really be loaded. His daughter’s supposedly very sickly and never seen at court. _Mysterious…_ ” Harry waggled her eyebrows conspiratorially. 

“It’s Tufaena, get it right,” John teased weakly.

Wat remained silent.

 _Later_ , John promised himself, but as soon as I can. As soon as we get home.

By the time the sun began to set, most of the fish were gone. Harry took to walking the street, hawking their wares at lower prices for all the straggling customers. John was about to try talking to his father again, to see if he should start going stand to stand, offering the other vendors steeply discounted fish, when he felt it.

First, it seemed like nothing, maybe a strange shift in the breeze. Then it felt like a lurch in the earth, down deeper than John had ever been. He put a hand to the stall’s table in front of him, trying to gauge the movement. There was a tremble going through the table, a strong vibration that shook John’s hand. 

That was when he began to hear it. It was a rumble, distant at first, but what drew John’s attention was Wat’s reaction. Wat dashed out from behind their stall and toward Harry. He grabbed her arm and basically dragged her back behind the stall and underneath the tarp overhang. They ran into the tanner’s shop and crouched away from the entrance. Many who were further back in the shop began to mimic them, though John had no idea what was going on.

Just that quickly the rumble had gotten louder. As his father pulled John and Harry down to the earth and guided them to tuck their heads underneath his arms, John spied pebbles moving on the floor. The ground beneath them was shuddering so hard that the pebbles were bouncing a few inches off of the floor. John had never seen anything like it.

Harry was screeching next to him, “What’s going on? What the hell’s going on, papa?!” 

John mirrored the sentiment but found that he could not find his voice. Maybe he, too, was too shaken, like the pebbles.

John could not see much through the narrow doorway of the tanners. From what he could see, their stand and the one across the lane from them had begun to sway jerkily. As John watched, their table—which had been unevenly set up even in the morning and suffering under a load improved it not at all—buckled and sent the remaining fish an ice chips scattering. They hit the ground and trembled, too, but John could not hear them over the roar in his ears.

Harry was still shouting, veins visible in her neck and the whites around her eyes, but the roar was louder than even Harry. Harry, his brave sister, who always seemed to know just what was needed to allay John’s fears, was scared. John was scared, too. He did what he had always done when he was scared. He reached out and took Harry’s hand. Before that moment, he had never thought that, just a John had drawn strength from Harry’s steady hand in his, perhaps Harry had drawn strength from him, too. He grasped her hand tight in his, and she clutched back; and, even though he could not hear her, he knew that she was there with him. They were together, even if they were not safe, and—

Was that an elephant? John tried to maneuver his head from under his father’s heavy arm. Had that been—yes!

John, looking through the narrow doorway of the tanners, saw another elephant thunder past at a remarkable speed. The next one had a person riding on it.

The person was small and paler than most people John had met. He?—John was guessing—He was dressed richly and clung to the elephant he was riding with enviable strength. It was then that John noticed that the elephant he rode seemed older and larger than the other elephants he had seen. The boy was riding the matriarch of the herd.

John could barely think past how thrilling it all was. Being on the ground during an elephant stampede—his heart was _racing_ , it felt like there was a stone in his chest and a bird in his belly. He was so excited by it all that he could not even feel his own heart beating. 

Then, John imagined how it must feel to the boy on the elephant, feeling something so much more powerful trying to rise up underneath him. A great wave of force that could topple him and trample him at any moment, and yet he had bested it, was besting it, riding it, bending it to his will and feeling each monumental step as though it was his own. John was afraid, yes, but amazed and thrilled and jealous, above all. 

John wanted to be up there with him. It was dangerous, sure, but the elephant was huge, larger than life—a titan—and what was danger compared to the feeling of what that must be like? John had felt small before, but looking on this he had never felt bigger, looking at what this small person was doing— _riding a titan. Glorious. Brilliant._ John stared and wanted like he had never wanted anything in his entire life. If only John could—if he could—

John’s mouth and throat were dry, and it was only then that John realized that he had been yelling up at the boy, screaming a cheer for him that may as well be a whisper since not a bit of it was audible over the deafening roar of pounding elephant feet. The elephants thundered by and took the boy on with them. Though the feelings had been the most intense John could ever remember feelings, the entire episode only lasted moments. 

Large clouds of dust had kicked up in the herd’s wake. Although they could not see the street clearly from where they crouched, it was easy to tell when the elephants had passed. The rumble of their galloping lessened progressively until it was as faint as the tremor that had preceded them, and then faded altogether. 

John looked over at his father and saw that Wat was also trying to see out into the street. Harry was still huddled into their father. John noticed that she had gripped a handful of Wat’s shirt tight in her fist, and the choking grip mirrored the one she had on John’s hand, so tight that he fully expected to have bruises in the places that her fingertips pressed claw-like into the back of his hand. Harry’s eyes were squeezed shut so hard that the corners of the lids looked white and bloodless.

“Harry… Harry…” his father was saying, rubbing her shoulder and back to soothe her, “It’s alright, love. It’s over.”

John watched his father repeat himself, reiterating the same statements until Harry’s clenched fists began to loosen. Wat helped Harry to her feet, allowing her to maintain the loose hold she had on his shirt. Wat began moved toward the door, and John followed them.

As John exited the shop and returned to take in what remained of their stall, he stepped over bits of debris that had fallen not only from the temporary stalls but some of the buildings around them.

John saw Harry from the corner of his eye and watched her progress on unsteady legs to gather the tarp. The tarp appeared undamaged, though every other piece of their stall seemed to be rubble. John went to help Harry gather it up, since her hands trembled and she still appeared shaken. 

Wat was with the sole owner of a neighboring stall. He was assisting her with trying to dig her wares out of the mess of what remained of her benches, racks, and tables. There were glints of color near their feet every so often, tiny loose beads or broken clay pieces from the pottery she had been selling.

John put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Move, let me help you with that.”

A half-formed expression of confusion flitted across Harry’s face but was gone in half a moment.

“What did you say?” Harry asked.

“I said, let me help you with the tarp,” John repeated, and began gently pushing Harry’s shoulder to encourage her to move away.

“Oh my gosh, why are you doing that? Now is not the time for games, John!” Harry’s tone was both angry and wobbly, like even her irritation was not enough to quell the monumental fear she had experienced recently. 

As loud as Harry could normally be, her current volume was much more than she usually inflicted on people in close conversation. John shrank back a bit, perplexed and a little offended. He had not been playing around, what was she talking about? Why was everyone saying such backwards things today? John could not understand it and called for his father. 

When Wat approached, John just pointed to Harry. Wat laid a firm hand on her upper back to draw Harry’s attention, and she turned toward him, swift and sharp like a whip.

“What’s wrong, Harry?” Wat asked.

Harry’s eyes moved to Wat’s lips as he spoke, and John watched the color drain from her face.

“Oh gods,” Harry moaned her face a rictus of distress, “Oh gods, papa!”

Harry suddenly clapped her hands a few times, which startled John. Then she clapped again, almost manic.

“I can’t hear!” Harry wailed, turning to Wat. John saw the shine of welling tears in her eyes. “I can’t hear anything!”

Wat’s eyes were wide and alarmed as he took Harry by both arms and pulled her in close. John had frozen and was focused solely on what was happening with Harry. The tarp hung limp and forgotten in his own hand; he was so focused on his sister and his father, oblivious to the slush of melted ice chips, street mud, and odd bits of fish seeping into his shoes. Wat waited until Harry had raised her eyes to meet his before he spoke.

“Can you hear anything at all, Harry?” Wat asked, drawing out his words and enunciating clearly, allowing Harry to attempt reading his lips to discern his words. 

Harry waited a moment to be sure that Wat was finished, and then rapidly shook her head from side to side, tears falling from her eyes and flowing in wayward paths down her cheeks due to the momentum. Wat pulled his sobbing child into his arms and tucked her head beneath his neck. Wat looked over at John as he tried to soothe Harry, and John could see the moment his father came to a decision.

“John, you clean up here and meet us at home. I’m taking Harry to see the doctor.” Wat nodded at John, who nodded back, and then took Harry’s hand to lead her out of the market.

John spent some time folding the tarp and then trying to sweep up the mess that had been their table. He tried hard not to think about Harry or the terror on her face when she had cried that she could not hear him. Instead, he tried to focus on banal things. He focused on the slight surprise he had felt when he discovered that some of the trestle bowls had survived. They were muddy, though he doubted his father would want him to throw them away just for that. That was a much safer thought than dwelling on the answering swell of horror he had felt when Harry had—

By the time John thought he had cleaned everything enough to satisfy his father, his anxiety was a tired, ever present thrum running beneath. The tanner agreed to store their meager belongings there to save John the trouble of having to put them in the icehouse storage. John was honestly grateful for the man’s considerate nature, but John did not have the energy to muster the appropriate level of enthusiasm as he thanked him.

John began to make his way home. Even though there were a few other vendors leaving at the same time, no one spoke. To John, the entire world seemed quiet. The sun had set some time ago, and the sky had begun darkening. Even the cicadas that buzzed and chirped at the oncoming night seemed muted. 

John debated whether he should go to the doctor to check on Harry or home as his father had instructed. In the end, he headed for the doctor’s residence. His father would forgive him if John explained how worried he was, hopefully, and that was only if his father was still at the residence. John hoped it was nothing, an easy fix, and that his sister and father were already at home.

John held firm to this hope as he entered the doctor’s residence and approached Mik, the only person in the receiving room. The news he received was mixed, but John could only sigh in relief when Mik told him that Vihaan thought Harry’s deafness was temporary. He told John that Vihaan was keeping her overnight for observation, but that Harry would likely be fine come morning, with such an aura of awe and hero worship about him that John was simultaneously annoyed and reassured.

John continued home. When he saw that the lantern on the door mantle was lit, he was relieved. He entered the house in search of his father and gave the box on the shelf a cursory tap as he strode past it. After a just a few seconds of looking around, he determined that Wat was not inside the house. He walked to the door on the side of the house and exited into the yard. To his shock, Wat was leaning against the wall just next to it, and John hastily lunged to catch the swinging door before his father was crushed behind it.

Wat gave John a wan smile and then resumed staring off into the distance. John felt awkward and wrongfooted, so he slowly took the bit of wall next to his father and mirrored his pose. A line of dark green ivy clung in a snaking whorl on the wall between them, and the leaves were still and tranquil in the windless evening. He waited for Wat to speak, but after a few minutes of complete quiet, John broke the silence himself.

“I went to check on Harry. They wouldn’t let me see her since she was sleeping. They said she would be fine, though…” John trailed off uncertainly.

John’s words seemed to shake Wat out of his reverie and he cleared his throat to reply, “Uh, yes. They said… they said she can probably come home in the morning or afternoon at the latest, though she may need some care over the next few days. Harry was pretty upset, almost hysterical, so they gave her something to drink, something to calm her down. Doctor Vihaan burned some herbs for her that were supposed to help her ears. I’ll… we can go back for her in the morning.”

John did not understand it—why now, why like this—a tear welled in his eye at the words. He was depressed but relieved. Mik had told him the same things but hearing them in his father’s voice made them more real, like hearing his father say it made it more… true. Harry was going to be alright.

John released a breathy sigh at the words and leaned more heavily against the wall at his back.

Wat chuckled softly, a single short sound that sounded sort of sad. “I guess we’ve had a pretty busy day, huh?”

Wat reached out to ruffle John’s hair the way he used to do when John was much younger. John could not remember the last time he had done so, and it suffused him with a warmth that did a lot to wash away the coldness of his worry over Harry.

Then John remembered something.

“Papa,” John said, looking up at his father, “earlier, in the market, that lord… you said—he said—you said you would…”

John was frustrated with the unexpectedly incoherent way his words were coming out, but Wat seemed to know what he was trying to ask. Wat heaved a heavy sigh and his hands spread out on the brick of the wall behind him as if he needed it to lend him support. Wat opened his mouth to reply. It hung open for a moment and then, stymied, Wat gradually closed it. He shook his head as if to clear it and pointedly avoided meeting John’s gaze.

“I… The reason he said…” Wat tried again, stiltedly trying to find his words. “Your mother…”

John’s felt as if his heart had ascended into his throat as he realized, again, that there was even something to explain. They stood in silence for a few moments and John watched his father continue to struggle for words.

Suddenly he remembered the moment earlier that day, the boy on the elephant, and how he had been so exhilarated—felt that he was at the head, barely in control of a great force that could smother him, but in control all the same. Now John was experiencing similar feelings, was still almost swallowed up by the strength of his emotion, yet this time he felt like he was on the edge of a precipice, at the rim of a great mouth that was ready to consume him.

Abruptly fed up with waiting, fed up with the feeling that he and the world he knew could be gobbled up at any moment, John asked bluntly, “What did that lord have to do with us? And aren’t we supposed to, I don’t know… Why didn’t you kneel to him?”

His father’s morose state vanished and his countenance was, in a flash, full of unexpected fire. “I will never kneel to that monster!”

Wat’s sudden vehemence shocked John back into silence. They stood there in the quiet for a few moments more, John stunned and Wat’s face a mix of embarrassment and regret as he calmed and seemed to realize his son’s curiosity was undeserving of his ire.

“I—I’ll tell you after dinner,” Wat rushed out, pushed off of the wall, and was gone inside before John could string together any more response besides his shaken expression. 

“Come inside, John,” Wat’s slightly muffled voice came through the door and John instinctively obeyed.

Throughout dinner, John watched his father. Wat’s expression fluctuated between one full of dread to one full of contemplation. John liked to think that his father was not a coward, but he could not pinpoint any other reason why his father would avoid addressing the situation the way he had so far.

Dinner dragged on, John felt, yet nothing notable happened to explain why it seemed to take years to finish the one meal. John had eaten his meal as quickly as he could stomach it, and it all tasted like ash because of the foreboding he felt, like an unseen ax might be hanging over his head, readying to incite an irrevocable change. Wat, conversely, took his time over his meal, so much so that he seemed to John to be drawing one bite out into five. John thought, at any moment, he might lose his mind and flip the table. His father would tan his hide and make him clean it up, which would take even more time until he could have his resolution and would drive him further into madness. 

Finally, they were both done.

John followed his father into the sitting room. He sat and waited while Wat lit the lamp in the room. When that was finished, Wat sat beside John. He looked distracted, gazing at the far wall and never even glancing toward John, who was staring so fixedly at the side of his father’s face it would likely begin to sizzle at any moment. Wat cleared his throat once, and then again, before he found his voice.

When Wat spoke, his voice was soft, which John had not expected, “Alright. This… this is something that you deserve to know, and I think you may even be mature enough to hear it. Gods know, you’re more mature than I was at 15, or even 19, honestly, and this is your story, too. So… I guess it’s best to start at the beginning.”

John was both anticipating and dreading the answer. He leaned in as Wat began to speak.

“Your mother, Emma,” Wat said, “was kind and capable. When I first met her, in was in another district. I had just been passing through and say her, a young woman dressed in a bright yellow skirt kneeling in the dirt to help a horse that had lost its shoe.”

Wat laughed, a surprisingly full laugh that cast off some of the shadows that had been in his face earlier, “And it wasn’t even her horse, John! She had stopped and done all this for a stranger. I learned that when I approached to help her. She looked up at me and smiled, even though she was a bit sweaty from the work and the sun, and had dirt smudged on her face. And she was so beautiful, John, beautiful and sweet. You have her blond hair and her blues eyes.

“I fell in love with her that day, and she told me where I could write to her before we parted. I went to the Golden Temple and begged for someone there to teach me how to read, just so that I could write her. She returned my letters even though I was below her. She was the daughter of a merchant, educated and refined, and I was a simple peasant. 

“I think I was more surprised than she was when I proposed, I mean—I loved her, but I didn’t expect her to accept—anyway, we were soon married with her father’s blessing. He bought us a house nearby so that Emma could continue to live in the life which she was accustomed to, though she always complained that the garden was too small. And everything was fine. Harry was born, and we were all so happy…

“Then, your mother was offered a position in a noble household. She was so excited that she had been hired as a gardener for a rich lord’s manor. She was thrilled at how grand everything was, and how much magic was there. You see, the lord who owned the manor was very powerful, his magic so strong that he had multiple mage apprentices. Emma, whose nurturing personality endeared her to everyone she met, gained the lord’s favor. There was magic everywhere in that house and he loved to show her those things. Some were practical like the fey balls of light that floated through the air, eliminating the need to light candles. Some was fanciful, like the tree on the wall in his study, which had golden branches that showed every member of his noble lineage.”

Wat paused there, disconcerted for some reason John did not know, but he continued before John could say anything. For his part, John had heard of Wat and Harry mention fleeting things about his mother, Harry less often as she had gotten older, but this was the most he had ever heard spoken about her at one time.

“Though your mother enjoyed learning about the magic, we were both concerned that the lord spent so much time and attention on a single employee of his massive household. One evening, she asked me if she should quit and look for a position in another household. He had not yet done anything inappropriate, so I advised her to stay on while we asked around to see if any of our friends knew of an open position in any other households. John, if I had known…” Wat voice was strangled, and he hung his head with a pained noise.

“Wat’s voice was muffled as he continued, “The next day, when the lord sought her out in the garden, Emma told him how uncomfortable he made her. The lord apologized, promised never to do it again, and asked her to share a lunch with him one last time. At this lunch, he poisoned her wine with something to make her complacent. She was in no state to run away, and he laid an enchantment over her, and… in the very garden she loved so much… he tore her clothes from her and assaulted her.”

At this, Wat’s voice grew so choked that he had to stop. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. John watched the trail the tear made from the corner of his father’s eye, down his cheek, until it disappeared into the collar of his shirt.

“And then… and then he left her there, drugged and incoherent, prone and unable to fend for herself…”

John wanted to tell his father to stop, to wait, that he could not hear any more of this. At the same time, though, John knew that this was a difficult undertaking for Wat and that, if he stopped this story now, Wat would possibly never be able to start it a second time. If that was the case, then John would never know, never know how this all connected to him. John would be doomed to wonder who he really was, forever.

“Eventually the poison began to wear off, and she was able to gather herself enough to return home, only to find that she could no longer cross the threshold of our home. She cried out to me and I ran to catch her. She was a sight, John, our poor Emma… The only bit of luck that we had was that I was quickly able to figure out the type of spell that was laid over her and remove it. It was a geas, a type of enchantment that is meant to control the victim in some way. Luckily, your mother had no innate magic to tie the geas to, so it was weak enough to break by simply touching my family heirloom. Thank the gods Tufaena did not know we had it. He put that spell on her just to be cruel, John, because she had refused him.

“I sent for the doctor and Emma was able to recover at home. I tried to speak to the authorities about it, but Tufaena pays them off. He owns them, and they told me to my face that they would not do anything to bring him to justice. He is a monster, John. Tufaena is a monster, and I mean every word when I tell you that he is the enemy of this family.” Wat looked at John when he said that last, a fire in his gaze and steel in his voice.

“A few months later, your mother told me that she was pregnant… She was pregnant with you. There was no way to tell for sure who the father was, but I knew, I _knew_ you were _my_ son. I told her that it didn’t matter, that you would be a part of our family regardless. But, when she told her father about everything that had happened, he told us to get rid of you and threatened us when we said we wouldn’t. Your mother wanted to think that he misspoke in anger, but I did not want to allow our family to come to any more harm. We moved away from him, to an entirely different district.

“We had only been in our new home, this house, when we received a delivery. It was a wagon full of gold, sent from Tufaena, and it came with a letter, mocking us.”

John did not want to know. He was horrified at all of this. He had thought he wanted to know, but now he knew that he did not ever want to. The pain on his father’s voice was something he had never heard before. He could only imagine what his mother had felt, to be violated in that way, to be attacked by someone she had trusted.

“He said… he said that he had noticed a new nub growing on the tree in his observatory, readying to form into a new branch. He offered to take you—”

John shot to his feet. He had to get out of there. He had to tell the authorities, the domestic militia, or—or just go to his room, collapse on his bed, shut the world out and cry. There were so many ugly things in the world, hideous things that he had never even considered could exist, and yet they had touched his family. He felt like he was part of this, too, those ugly things had made him up. He was the final product of all the attack on his mother. He had not known that a person could be so cruel, how—he had to get out of this room!

A strong grip on his arm stopped him from running away. Wat pulled at John and continued talking until John turned around to face him, “Of course, we would not agree to that. We would not give you up, ever. We sent the gold to the temple and we burned that letter. Yes, Tufaena knew about you, and his letter showed that he could find us wherever we went. But even after you were born a few months later—after your mother died in childbirth, after our family was weakened with the loss of her—he never came for you. And I would have fought to the death to keep you if he had.”

John, your birth was a beautiful thing that came out of a sequence of ugliness. I was devastated to lose Emma, you know I was, I still am, and I won’t lie to you and tell you that I’m not. But I love my family more than anything, John, you know that. And though I wouldn’t trade either one of you for the other, I can’t regret you being born. You’re my son.” 

“No, I, you can’t really believe that,” John said, voice choked and hoarse with tears. “ _I’m_ the one who killed your wife. She died because of me! Giving birth to me, and I’m not even... I’m not really part of your family. How… how have you even raised me all these years? How can you even stand to look at my face? I ruined your family… And I’m not even your son!”

John put all of his weight behind trying to pull out of Wat’s hands, pitching one way and then another, like a wild animal trying to escape a trap.

“No! You’re my son, _my_ son! And I love you,” Wat’s arms wrapped around John and pulled him into Wat’s chest. His warmth and scent were so familiar. Wat smelled like their house, _like home_ to John.

John could not bring himself to return the embrace, but he buried his face in Wat’s neck as he wailed in grief and anger. This was his father, the only one he knew… He comprised everything that fatherhood meant to John. John could not bear finding out that he did not really belong here, with this man. This was his family. This family was all he had ever known, and he loved them.

John eventually went lax in Wat’s arms, exhausted, and his wails quieted to long, drawn out sobs. John would always consider Wat his father. He did not know if Wat really meant what he said—that he truly considered John his son—or if he had just kept John out of a sense of obligation to John’s mother, his wife, after she had died. But John knew, not matter what Wat’s true feelings were, he considered Wat his father. Harry was his sister… and, on certain, his brother. 

John knew that he would never consider Tufaena his father. The man was nothing but a monster. He was like the beasts in John’s books, preying on the innocent and the good. The authorities had the responsibility to take care of citizens like him and his family. It stung that they had not only condoned the attack on his mother, but that they were likely still dirty, corrupt and being paid off by the very person they should be prosecuting. Even dealing with the other revelations of the night, John could not stand the thought of the grievous injustice that had been dealt to his family. 

The abuse of power was disgusting, and the lapse of justice was disgusting, too; John vowed he would change that. He would change it all.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is a precious little SPOILED BRAT... but he gets stuff done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of these days, I will be able to stop my two-page chapter outline from evolving into a 10K chapter. I pray.
> 
> Here is part one of your bi-weekly, semi-monthly trash. John is sweet and Sherlock is sour, perfect snacks for a movie but with no nutritional value to speak of.
> 
> Non-English words/reference in this chapter:  
> Jaituna=jaitoon=Olive, which I think is a cute name for Sherlock's mom, and Punjab is an exporter of olives, so, there you go!  
> Hadsana= Mrs. Hudson. I literally put 'Hudson' into a translator. ~~Sorry, not sorry~~ I'm ashamed.  
>  sher=lion

The wind blew through the open doorway of the balcony outside of his bedroom, ruffling the sheer blue curtains hanging on either side. The soft strains of music were carried in on the slight breeze, melodic in the calm tranquility of the temperate day. It sounded like a woodwind and seemed to be coming from the direction of his mother’s private garden, so was likely an alghoza. She favored those. Everyone knew the empress favored the alghoza… which is why in the palace, at any given time, there was always at least one aspiring lord or lady playing them.

_Banal._

He much preferred the soul and drama of the esraj, but no one inside the palace much cared for the opinions of the youngest prince. The spare. 

_Dreary._

Outside of the palace, where he was rarely allowed to venture, his nobility was often such a novelty that the citizens fell over themselves to grant his every wish, even those he had yet to wish for. Inside of the palace, he was practically ignored. In all settings, adults spoke over and around him.

_Insipid._

For the gods’ sakes, he was 11 years old, not a complete idiot. 

The tedium was making him irritable. Normally, he was successful in ignoring the actions and the agendas of the courtiers, but not today it seemed.

Maybe he could construct another experiment on the rate of deceleration due to wind resistance versus the acceleration due to gravity. Mycroft’s insufferable assistant had interfered in the last one and Sherlock had not been able to record any conclusive results before he had been dragged away from the shattered pottery. Perhaps he could recreate it, could try again. The palace still had so many vases. 

_Irksome._

He watched the curtain settle as the breeze died, falling back to their resting position. The silence resumed; without the wind, the music lacked the volume required to travel all the way up into his room. He could cast a listening spell, if he really wanted to hear it again. If he just went out onto the balcony, he could likely catch some faltering notes, but why bother?

_Tiresome._

He was being punished. 

When he had heard that Mycroft would be leaving the palace to survey the outer plains, he had jumped at the chance to accompany him. The palace staff had been becoming even more overbearing than usual, always watching him. 

The possibility that he might find something thrilling had revitalized him, until the convoy had reached the plains. He had been disappointed, at first. The plains were just that: plain. Flatland and scrub, dry and dusty, for as far as his eye could see. But then, on the outskirts of civilized land, or at least as far as the heir of the empire was allowed to go, there had been an elephant breeder eager to showcase his herd to the crown prince, and Sherlock, well… anyway, now he was being punished.

_Trite._

As if there need be any greater punishment than the dull, repetitive, platitudinous experience of everyday palace life.

_Monotonous._

“Highness?” A voice called from outside of his periphery. Male. Likely a guard, then. Compared to servants, there was a disproportionate amount of them this deep in the castle. Voice possessing a strained quality that meant he had probably been calling for Sherlock for quite some time but had lacked the temerity to approach or intrude on him.

“What. Is. It.”

“His imperial majesty requests your presence in the throne room for the Hearing of the Public Grievances.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and grimaced in annoyance. He sighed heavily. Now, this. He assumed it would be dull, most people were dull, and most of the things they said and did were dull, dull, _dull_. Why? Why him? How? How did other people put up with the endless barrage of uninteresting things? Did the drudgery of it all fail to penetrate their vapid consciences? 

“Highness…”

He really _was_ being punished.

_Tedious._

~~

As soon as Sherlock entered the room, he could tell that the golden chair on Mycroft’s right side had been hastily added there. Sherlock had not often been in the throne room, having no business there himself, but could still tell that this was an atypical setup for the room. 

The emperor was seated in the empress’ throne, both of which were on a raised dais which allowed the rulers to peer down at their subjects even during the ceremony which was supposed to exhibit and reinforce just how accessible they were. Ironic.

Mycroft was seated in their father’s throne, looking peering down his nose at the current supplicant. He was wearing a complicated expression, both benign and condescending, which had the unfortunate effect of having his nostrils flared wide. Unfortunate. Wait, was it unfortunate? Why was it unfortunate? Sherlock thought it made him look like he had a sinus condition.

As Sherlock reached the foot of the dais, he paused near Siger. Surely one last ditch attempt could not hurt anything.

“Imperial father,” Sherlock intoned, and then continued at a lower volume, “why do I have to be here? Isn’t this mother’s duty?”

Siger made a show of waving a welcoming hand and gesturing to the newly appointed chair next to Mycroft. There had not been enough room for it on the dais, so it was lower and approximately a foot further back from the seats his father and brother already filled.

“My son,” Siger replied regally, and the corners of his lips rose in a smile that had been crafted specifically to appear genuine to his subjects. He took hold of Sherlock’s arm to draw him closer and said under his breath, “Your mother has been very busy, practically overrun of late. We are taking some of her burden, working a little harder to allow her to rest. We love her, and although our duties often keep us apart during our days, this is a way we can show her our love.”

Sherlock’s face wrinkled in annoyance, but Siger released his arm and allowed him to continue to his seat. Sherlock loved his mother, sure he did. 

No one in the empire would ever openly say they did not love the empress, Jaituna. Still, no one could claim a love that came close to Siger’s. Rumors of the regard between Jaituna and Siger had existed even during her first marriage. After a brief marriage of political advantage to her first husband, who had died less than two years into marriage, the empress had hardly waited a respectable mourning period before marrying again. It had clearly been as much a love match as her previous marriage had not been, and it was apparent to anyone who saw Siger’s face as he spoke of her how very much in love he still was.

Sherlock shot his gilded chair one last disdainful glare before clambering into the oversized thing. He wondered how, after all of the cautionary tales in literature and folklore, people still continued to fall in love and suffer for it.

Sherlock respected his father. If Siger was subjecting not only himself but also both of his sons to this ceremony, then Sherlock figured that surely there must be something to be learned from it. He would try, at the very least. 

It did not hurt that his brother, Mycroft, was also in attendance. Mycroft was significantly older, over ten years Sherlock’s senior. Even with this distance in age and experience, Sherlock was quite fond of his brother. He could be overbearing at times, but—outside of their mother—Mycroft’s intellect was unmatched and speaking with him was rarely completely boring. Sherlock could not say the same for most others.

With a wan smile, Mycroft engaged Sherlock in a game in which the petitioners seated before them became subjects of their intense scrutiny. As these were the exact same subjects who had bored Sherlock practically insensate only moments ago, Sherlock considered that this was proof his brother could truly make anything interesting with the power of his mind. 

The two princes were seated close enough that the approaching supplicants might have heard them if they spoke at a normal volume, so they both made their observations in low tones.

A lady approached the throne and addressed Siger, though Sherlock did not bother listening to her concern. He turned to his brother.

“Hm… she’s from the Western lands. The soil there is slightly redder—smudges around the hem of her travelling dress, and the skin on her face has been cleaned recently but is still a little more lined than most ladies—the wind in those lands are drier. A noble, rich estate and not recently become so—her apparel is fine quality and bespoke, and her accessories elegant but not flashy.” Sherlock spoke under his breath in Mycroft’s direction.

“Do spare me the obvious things, brother mine. I’m sure you’ve noticed her limp?” Mycroft’s loftily replied, sounding uninterested though the sharp focus of his eyes upon the woman betrayed him.

“Yes... She lives a sheltered life but has recently been injured.” Sherlock replied hesitantly.

Mycroft scoffed, loud enough to draw attention from the lady. He gave a small cough and motioned to his assistant for a handkerchief, playing off his lapse in control. “She has recently given birth. The paleness of her skin—look there—her body shows multiple symptoms from atypical stress. She had to use magic in order to carry to term and now she is paying for it.”

“But her marriage ring—”

“Yes, it is not a new marriage. The ring is old, doesn’t fit her finger well—an heirloom, then, and lost weight with the strain of her pregnancy—but the skin around it is pale from lack of sun. She’s been wearing it for a while, then. Her stilted movements bely that the birth was recent, too recent for healing charms to have full effect, not that she would have been able to afford them.” Mycroft expounded with a hint of smugness to his tone.

Sherlock glanced up at him, and then back down as he formed his reply, “But, no, she is clearly wealthy—”

“The estate has wealth,” Mycroft corrected, “though it is not hers to command. If it was, would she have come herself, newly from the birthing bed? No, likely the majority of the wealth is in some commodity, not easily liquefiable. Their estate uses it to trade with their neighbors, but the coffers are rather dry at the moment. Unhappy marriage, too, see how the husband has not accompanied his wife to this hearing? Likely displeased with the child then, or rather, his mistress is displeased with him finally having child in wedlock—”

“Mycroft!”

His father’s hissed reprimand disrupted Sherlock’s focus on Mycroft’s lengthy deductions. Mycroft’s deductions had been growing in passion and, with that, volume, though both of the brothers had been too caught up to notice.

Mycroft was able to gather his wits and recover more quickly than Sherlock, whose mouth was still gaping a bit in surprise. He tilted his head at the lady the tiniest amount necessary in order to apologize and said, “My sincerest apologies, Lady Tremaine. Congratulations on your new child.”

Sherlock thought that Mycroft had said the word ‘child’ with so much distaste that it could not possibly still be considered polite, but no one remarked on it. Lady Tremaine inclined her head in acceptance and favored Mycroft with an exhausted smile. She curtsied to them and left the room, business apparently concluded. Siger shot a dark look at his sons, which Sherlock knew meant they had better behave or Siger would try his best to make them regret it later.

The next citizen to approach the dais identified himself as a doctor. The doctor’s apprentice approached with him, but kept her hands clasped nervously in front of her and her eyes on the flagstones beneath her feet. The doctor had huge eyes and bowed gratuitously to them all, and he reminded Sherlock of a one of the goshawks that liked to build their nests in the palace maze. 

“Accipiter gentilis,” Sherlock turned in his seat to speak in the direction of Mycroft’s ear.

Mycroft’s gaze remained on the man, but the mean smirk that blossomed on his face caused the doctor’s confident speech to falter. The conversation he had with Siger was quick, something about land territory—Sherlock really was hardly bothering to even pretend to listen any more. Siger refuted his claim and the man left shortly after, successfully maintaining his façade of gentility at least until he had exited the throne room.

As they left, Sherlock noted that Mycroft’s eyes followed the apprentice’s departure. He smirked at his brother. The movement drew Mycroft’s eyes to him.

“You’re staring, brother.” Sherlock teased. “What, see something you like?”

Mycroft raised his head in a haughty manner, chin sticking out and eyes going hard for a moment, before he softened and conceded, “Yes, actually. Though not for the reasons you assume. I was simply wondering what it must be like to have such freedom, for one to be able to choose one’s profession. I doubt the girl truly realizes the blessings of low birth.”

_“What?”_ Sherlock was shocked. He had always been told, by his parents and his nanny, that he should be grateful for the privileges his high birth afforded him. Since Sherlock looked to them with respect, and for guidance, he had tried to at least appear to be grateful, even in the moments when he was not. To hear his brother, who he also looked up to, contradict them shook him.

Siger had turned to look over at them at Sherlock’s outburst. Mycroft, who was turned toward Sherlock, did not see Siger. Sherlock knew that his father was curious about what Mycroft would say, although his facial expression remained impassive.

“Have you never chafed at the restrictions upon us, Sherlock? To the public, we appear to have wealth and power, but truly we have no freedom and no privacy. The wealth we have is given to us by the people: taxes and tokens. As to our power… we must pander to the concerns of those who are beneath us, especially those with the wealth to possibly fund a rebellion. Even if we could put it down, it would weaken us. Dissent is to be avoided when at all possible, Sherlock, and sometimes it is to the detriment of true justice or compassion.” Mycroft trailed off as he finally followed Sherlock’s gaze to where their father was watching Mycroft with unwavering attention. 

There was another supplicant in front of them, though Siger had not given his attention to the woman since he was so focused on hearing Mycroft’s contentions. Once Mycroft had ceased speaking, it was only a moment before Siger noticed her and beckoned her forward to share her plight. Even as he did so, he gave Mycroft an indecipherable look and muttered something aside to him. Mycroft nodded and turned to lean down to Sherlock. As the woman began telling her issue, Mycroft relayed that his father had suggested a break after resolving this issue.

The woman who had come to stand before them wore a simple cotton dress, mostly clean, and was notable to Sherlock mostly because there was no haze of magic around her. There was not even a hint of the lingering buzz of a physical charm or a subtle beauty spell, and yet… there was a hum in her aura. Most magic was like an ever-present underlying chime ringing in Sherlock’s nerves, each enchantment varying in tone and feeling. However, this felt like a buzzing, like something alive.

Mycroft had also straightened in his seat. His posture was stiff and straight, but Siger maintained the same condescending air, presenting a façade that seemed both benign and impartial. Sherlock could not tell if his father was feeling what he felt, but perhaps Mycroft had been.

“Your Majesties,” the woman began, “I thank you for hearing my concerns today. It has been six months since my husband passed and our farm is being poisoned by the nearby mill. They grind animal bones and the runoff of their business flows into our water line. It is polluting the water we use on our crops.”

Sherlock could not put his finger on it, but his brain was screaming at him; something was wrong. It was not the way he normally experienced ‘feelings’ when his logic had made such vast leaps of reasoning that it took his mind some time to fully make sense of what he had deduced. Instead, it was as if a foreign entity was imposing a feeling of dread over him, something outside of his own mind. Sherlock did not understand it.

The woman certainly lived on a farm—the slight stains around her fingertips smacked of berry-picking and her skin was quite weathered from sun and wind—and she was a fairly recent widow, made apparent by the ill-fitting nature of her dress. It had clearly been made for a much wider woman, though not for a taller one, which indicated the dress had always been her size, and likely always been hers. Still, there was a nagging feeling, perhaps it was in his own innate magic, telling him that the woman—

“She’s—” Mycroft started, but Sherlock cut him off with a breathless word, expelled from him almost involuntarily.

“—lying.” 

Siger started at that, turning swiftly in his seat to look at Sherlock, the excess fabric of his robes falling around the throne in an uncoordinated cascade. Sherlock had barely felt the first stirrings of panic being the focus of his father’s scrutiny when he finally saw it.

From behind the woman, a ghostly translucent hand had wrapped around the curve of her shoulder. The longer that Sherlock stared at it, the more corporeal it seemed to become, until it was so solidly visible that he almost could not see the woman’s shoulder through it. Sherlock raised a hand and pointed to it. His father and brother gazed in the direction he was pointing, though neither said a word aloud. 

“You,” Sherlock attempted to infuse as much command as her could into his young voice, “come forward. No, not you, woman.” Sherlock amended as the supplicant had moved to approach.

As Sherlock watched, a face emerged slowly from behind the woman’s head. Based on his clothes and the way he was holding onto the woman, it seemed to be the ghost of the woman’s husband, the late farmer. The apparition stepped forward a bit at Sherlock’s command, but would not release his wife’s shoulder.

“It’s the farmer,” Sherlock said in a hushed voice as shock caused the arm he pointed with to waver. “He’s still there with you. Why won’t he leave? Sentiment? But then, why make the crops fail?”

“Sherlock, what are you on about,” came Mycroft’s harassed-sounding reply.

_“Murderess,”_ Sherlock hissed in glee. Finally, something exciting!

The room was deathly quiet for a few long seconds before the woman sputtered out, “I don’t—I don’t know what his highness is referring to—”

“You constructed your husband’s murder, sabotaged his farming equipment until he accidentally killed himself. Made it so that you just needed to clean up the mess. You are a simply farmer’s wife and yet you came here with as much staff as some of the ladies who plan an extended stay in the palace do! You don’t like to get your hands dirty, and yet you had to dispose of your husband’s body. You allowed his body to rot on your land, but when the crops consistently failed, you knew he was taking his revenge on you.”

“Sherlock,” Siger finally deigned to speak, but even his imposing father’s weighty voice was not enough to silence Sherlock’s runaway deductions.

“You realized you needed to move him, get him completely off of the land, so you bleached his bones, then hid them away into the animal bones going to grind in your neighbor’s mill. You hadn’t known beforehand that your neighbor’s runoff was coming onto your land because it had not made a difference. But even after you had disposed of your husband’s remains—”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft tried again, but was halted by Siger’s hand on his chest. Siger’s eyes remained focused on his younger son, listening pensively to his rambling explanation. The woman at their feet had gone extremely pale.

“—your farm still suffered. You investigated and found that your husband’s bones had found their way back onto your land, quite possibly in the runoff from your neighbor’s land, but your husband’s essence was now so small it was undetectable. The land needed to be cleansed, and that is expensive, much more expense than your accounts can bear at the moment. And so, you came here to persuade the Crown to fund the endeavor, to help you clean up the last traces of your murder of your husband!”

The woman, who had been getting progressively paler with fear and then redder with anger, screeched as Sherlock finished. She leapt towards him, muttering a spell under her breath. Sherlock reflexively flinched and Mycroft made a movement to raise his arm to shield his brother but aborted the movment. Almost instantaneously, the protective spells on Siger’s throne, which extended far enough out that Sherlock’s chair was in their range of defense, took hold of the witch. The spell froze her in place, while the protective enchantments that had been placed on Sherlock’s person since birth caused the spell she had cast at him to fizzle into nothing before it came close to touching the prince.

Siger waved a hand and his guards approached from either side, dragging the frozen woman away and presumably to the dungeons. Sherlock was still breathless with excitement, almost panting, while Mycroft visibly composed himself after the unexpected outburst. Siger looked torn, likely between commending Sherlock on his findings or reprimanding him for his uncouth manners.

In the end, Siger simply sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, then tilted his head toward Mycroft and Sherlock. “Perhaps it would be best if you two went ahead to meet your mother for dinner. I will finish up here and join you shortly.”

Excitement thoroughly concluded, Sherlock jumped at the chance to escape the tedious duties. He practically leapt from his chair. When he would have literally run for the door, Mycroft wrapped a quick hand around his arm and escorted him from the room in a more stoic manner, befitting their station.

As they walked in the hall, their entourage (mostly made up of Mycroft’s guards and assistants, though Sherlock’s few guards were present as well) Mycroft maneuvered himself a bit closer to his brother. Before Sherlock could shy away from the sudden proximity, Mycroft spoke near his ear.

“What do you imagine you were doing earlier, showing off? Just because you have knowledge doesn’t mean everyone else should have it as well.”

Sherlock could scarcely believe his ears. After he had been so clever, had deduced even what Mycroft had not (though could it really be called true deduction, he wondered), so clever that it had even stayed his father’s tongue from scolding him… to have it be his brother who reprimanded him, instead… it both confused and infuriated Sherlock.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sherlock spat acidly. “I just did exactly as we have done all day! What, are you jealous?”

Mycroft scoffed and straightened. “Don’t be a fool. Jealous of what? I simply meant that you’ll never truly win the game if your opponent knows you as well as you know them. Your deductions may have been correct, but the only reason you still stand beside me instead of injured or dead is because the widow didn’t know as much about you as you did about her. Do you think she would have attacked you with such a weak spell if she had been aware of the strength of your wards? Her ignorance led to your triumph, and you would do well to remember that.”

Mycroft tried to punctuate his statement by giving a pretentiously sniff, but the gesture was ruined by Sherlock’s inelegant snort. 

“Says the one who was just preaching that we should all aspire to be like a commoner. They aren’t even intelligent enough to join in on the game, let alone win.” Sherlock cast his eyes in the opposite direction of Mycroft. He did not want his brother to see his moment of weakness, that Mycroft’s derision had hurt him in any way.

Mycroft made no such effort to hide his ire. His voice was sharp and cold, “Must you persist in being obtuse, brother? Every moment of life in this castle is part of the game, every interaction with someone else another move on the board. Small victories can be fun or diverting at times, but the real object of the game is to have and keep your power. Those with no might behind them do not survive, Sherlock.”

Sherlock peered up at his brother and motioned the servants to catch up with them, and he increased his pace as they neared the dining room. This displeasing conversation had dragged on long enough. “You’re being melodramatic, Mycroft.”

Mycroft’s waved an irritable hand at the servants to contradict Sherlock’s implied command. 

“You’ve played chess, brother. The king may be the figurehead, but his ability to move is restricted, as is _ours_. The positions we were born into place us on a pedestal, high up enough that it is dangerous if anyone should come to knock us down. Not only are we easy targets, a fall from that height could be deadly. Do you think we have many friends in those lesser than us? They will resent us and block us at every opportunity, even if we are trying to do good for the people. You can’t show any weakness, not even to those you consider your friends.”

Sherlock had no peer, not even Mycroft, so friends were impossible. What friends, Sherlock considered dismally. Instead of voicing that thought, he said, “What friends? You don’t have any friends, Mycroft!”

A vulnerable expression flashed across Mycroft’s eyes, but it was gone before Sherlock could even think to remark on it, and a flinty expression replaced it. “You will never be able to see your way to victory if you cannot see and anticipate the advantages others have over you, Sherlock. That is an unacceptable mindset for someone who lives in the palace, under constant watch!”

Uncharacteristically, Mycroft had raised his voice in anger, and it discomfited Sherlock, who began actively searching for a way to escape the conversation. The easiest way, which had worked statistically better in past experiences, was to annoy Mycroft until he lapsed into a sulky silence. Sherlock had the feeling that method would not work in his current situation.

“A lesser noble truly has the most advantages.” Mycroft continued, taking a deep breath for calm, “They are allowed to keep a small staff, which affords them privacy, unlike us. They may not have all of the wealth of other lords or ladies, but they have the most mobility, able to come and go anywhere without raising suspicion or expectation. Surely, you must see that there are certain downfalls of imperiality. You, out of everyone, must see that.”

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft, incredulous and suspicious, “You expect me to believe that you’re seriously advocating anarchy right now, Mycroft? You, of all people?” 

“No, of course not. I’m simply making a point. Don’t be dull,” Mycroft snapped. 

“Belaboring a point, you mean,” Sherlock muttered ungraciously, glaring into the opposite direction. Mycroft was unphased.

“Of everyone who might concoct a plot against us, a minor noble’s would be the least likely to be found out. They manage their own time and make their own schedules, for the most part. And they don’t have to deal with being surrounded only by people trying to manipulate them and use their political power, since they don’t have much to begin with. Sherlock, are you listening? You are old enough that you need to know of the dangers against you—”

“Yes? And why is that, Mycroft?” Sherlock spat, truly frustrated with the conversation, now. As much as he liked that he could have an intelligent conversation with his brother, he hated how condescending Mycroft could be. Sherlock’s raised voice was not quite a shout, but he could see the servants shift nervously in his peripheral vision.

Sherlock turned his face away from his brother again, though Sherlock worried it might be pointless to try maintaining an unaffected façade at this point. Ahead, in their path of travel, he caught sight of a bustling group of courtiers, likely abuzz because of someone important. He and Mycroft were still too far away to identify who it was.

“Because I insist. I’m only telling you to be careful, brother mine—”

“Mother!” Sherlock threw up a hand and raced forward, away from Mycroft, who spluttered in indignation. 

Sherlock was small enough to wind through most of the other courtiers, most of whom appeared to find his behavior amusing, or at least they pretended to. He called for his mother, who he had only caught a glimpse of. That had been enough of an excuse to escape Mycroft, at any rate. Sherlock heard his mother’s voice call for her entourage to stop, which gave Sherlock the time he needed to worm his way through to her.

As soon as he was in her presence, he felt measurably calmer. Mycroft would not dare pick on him in front of their mother. She smiled warmly down at Sherlock and lifted a graceful hand to run affectionately through his curly hair. She smelled of orchids.

“Sherlock,” Jaituna said his name fondly, “are you causing trouble again?”

“No, mummy,” Sherlock answered immediately, expression aiming for earnestness, “Mycroft is being unbearable.”

Jaituna motioned for the group to continue, and as they all entered the dining room, replied to Sherlock, “Now, don’t speak of your brother that way, my dear. You know it’s inappropriate.”

“Yes, mother.” Sherlock agreed, only somewhat begrudgingly. “Why are there so many people here?” 

They had just passed the section of the table where Sherlock would normally sit, along with his ever-present minder, his nanny. Sherlock spared a moment to hope that he would perhaps be allowed to sit with his mother today, the way he had used to when he was younger.

“They are here to support Mycroft. Remember, his birthday is less than a month away. Preparations for the celebration have already begun.” There was pride in the empress's voice, a tone that he rarely ever heard her use when speaking of anything but her empire. “Your brother is a very important man and already people wish to curry his favor.”

Sherlock twisted around to see if he could spot Mycroft but was careful not to move far enough that his mother’s warm hand fell from his head. To his disappointment, Mycroft was quickly approaching. The crowd had thinned as they entered the room, which had made it easier for Mycroft and his posse of personal assistants to fight his way through to them. Sherlock considered Mycroft's red, sweat-damp face and heaving breaths as consolation to being caught.

“Mycroft,” their mother said reprovingly, though the hand she raised to briefly cup his cheek was gentle, “what a state you're in. You know better. Chasing your little brother around the castle?”

“Apologies, mother,” Mycroft intoned as graciously as he could while still panting, a smile—tiny, but genuine—curling his lips.

Their mother's answering smile was equally small and, unfortunately, equally brief, “Your intended is here tonight, my son. Do make sure that she receives our family's favor.”

From that, Sherlock could tell that Jaituna was still somewhat ambivalent towards Mycroft's betrothed, the young Lady Tufaena, though from what he had heard his parents say on the matter, it was not because the empress particularly disliked her. The same could not be said for the girl's father, Lord Tufaena, but for reasons other than the marriage or, at least, in other reasons in addition to the marriage. 

Arranged marriages were not uncommon. Siger himself had arranged the marriage, though it had been an affair carried out between only him and Tufaena. Much to the empress' displeasure, she had only heard of her own son's engagement after the documents had been signed and sealed. The entire ordeal had taken place around the time Sherlock had been born, and even in all the time that had passed since then, it was still an underlying bone of contention between the imperial couple. 

“Yes, mummy,” Mycroft said, then bowed low and made his way over to the young woman.

Mycroft’s betrothed—Sherlock did not know her name—was pale and waiflike. Sherlock thought she looked weak. For all that he had not taken Mycroft seriously when he had bemoaned the grave dangers of court life, Sherlock could not fathom how someone as frail as she was would survive being empress. A maidservant had needed to alert her to Mycroft’s presence even though he was practically standing over her, and even when she did acknowledge him it was only with a sickly smile. His mother’s voice broke Sherlock from his perusal of his future sister-in-law.

“Sherlock, return to your seat and we may begin the meal,” the empress spoke to him, but her gaze was on the courtiers she would be dining with, her youngest son already mostly out of mind.

“But mummy,” Sherlock began, though he stopped abruptly when his mother fixed him with a hollow look. With solely the change in her expression, she was suddenly the empress who must be obeyed, no longer Sherlock loving mother.

“Do not whine, Sherlock,” Jaituna’s voice was hollow as well, but the emptiness was a warning in itself.

“Yes, mummy,” Sherlock replied in a small voice, and retreated to his seat, cowed. As his nanny sat beside him and began filling his plate for him, he ordered himself not to cry. He was not a baby, to cry when he did not get his way or, more specifically, for missing his mummy.

Mycroft’s betrothed was seated in Mycroft’s section of the table, almost directly across from Sherlock’s. Mycroft had taken some time away from her in order to speak with some other nobles in attendance who he apparently considered worth his time. He had since returned to her and taken the seat beside her. Her father, Lord Tufaena, was not with his daughter but seated closer to the head of the table, only a few seats from the empress herself. 

Tufaena had leaned back in his seat to speak to his manservant. He continued speaking to him at some length, Sherlock noticed, which was peculiar. In a room full of nobles from far and wide all over the empire, the man chose to stay in his seat and speak to his servant? No one else seemed to notice, but Sherlock’s interest was piqued.

Sherlock was also close enough to hear Mycroft conversing with the young Lady Tufaena. Upon closer inspection, Sherlock could see how the servants moved most of her dinnerware around for her, helping her even more than his nanny helped him. She held her own eating utensils and brought the food to her mouth, but everything else was handled by the servant at her elbow. Her servant even held the cup to her mouth for her to drink. 

Sherlock was a little intrigued by that, and he wondered if he could plot some way to get his nanny to do the same for him. He was undecided whether he truly wanted to, but could he actually manipulate her successfully into doing so? Already he had convinced her that the small amount of rice he had eaten was sufficient. 

Sherlock overhead Mycroft mention Sherlock’s name to his dinner companion, and he ducked his head down to pick at his plate and feign eating. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft called, clearly trying to draw Sherlock into interacting with young Lady Tufaena. “Sherlock!”

Sherlock kept his gaze on his plate and leisurely took a bite of food. He pretended not to hear Mycroft’s calls.

Sherlock had not quite been prepared for the heat of the food that he had feigned eating. He had only been half-heartedly listening and arguing as his nanny had tried cajoling him into consuming some sort of heavily spiced, fried mush which she insisted was a vegetable dish. He had eaten a spoonful before involuntarily gagging. 

While gasping for breath, Sherlock decided he may as well play it up. He began begging loudly for water, almost crying in distress. All of this was in aid of exhausting his nanny. Once she was both sufficiently exhausted with him and appeased that he had at least eaten some ‘real food’ he would instruct her to load his plate up with desserts, which he would actually enjoy. His favorites were the sticky desserts he was allowed to eat with his fingers. His nanny and Mycroft always complained that they were overly sweet, but Sherlock believed they were only trying to convince to him to abandon the best bits to them. He did not believe that a thing could ever be ‘too’ sweet.

All this he pondered as he watched Mycroft and his fiancée. She squinted at his brother as if she could not make out his face clearly, features pinched in concentration. Sherlock heard his brother offer to procure a vision correcting charm for her—of course Mycroft would hardly deign to use his own magic for such a medial task—only for her to decline. According to her, her father was wary of foreign magicks in his home. Sherlock thought it might have been wiser for him to simply make fewer enemies, and certainly easier than maintaining wards that only allowed select magic to pass into his home. 

Peripherally, Sherlock caught movement by one of the doors exiting to the hall outside of the dining room and only just barely saw the servant Tufaena had been conversing with earlier slip out of the room. Sherlock spared a brief moment to beg his nanny even more intensely for a specific dessert that was a little out of her reach. Once the woman had turned away to grab it, he slid from his chair and under the table. On hands and knees, he swiftly crawled out between the legs of his chair and scuttled across the floor and out into the hallway.

Sherlock stood up and pressed his back to the wall beside the open doorway, listening for any disturbance in the tone of the dinner conversation that would signify that he had been noticed. He did not hear anything and began walking along the hall, looking down the halls that branched off of the one he was in to see which way the servant had taken. 

In the second hallway he peered down, Sherlock spotted Tufaena’s man. The servant had a short stature for a man, with a cropped head of light brown hair. He was looking down at something in his hands that glowed with a subtle violet light in the torchlit hall. The object had obviously been charmed by a mage, though Sherlock had not yet determined whether the servant was that same mage who had charmed it or even whether the man was a mage at all. It would be odd for a mage to be a servant, since magic was restricted to those of noble blood. The man could possibly be a mage who worked in Tufaena’s household but, if that was the case, he was clearly hiding that fact since he was not wearing a mage’s robes.

Sherlock followed a short way behind the servant as the man made several turns down different hallways. The man paused at the turn of the next hallway, seemed to listen intently, and then took off running. Why run, Sherlock wondered, if you were innocent of all wrongdoing? Sherlock had not even been chasing him and, even if he had, he was not exactly the scariest person in the palace, being 11 years old. The action smacked of guilt, of nefarious intent or behavior. With that in mind, Sherlock chased after him. 

Sherlock followed him into one of the palace’s gardens, sprinting for all he was worth. There was not a guard in sight, which Sherlock noted but was not too alarmed by. This was one of the public gardens which were open to anyone who was visiting the palace, not his mother’s private garden. IF they were supposed to be manned at all times by a guard, Sherlock did not know it.

Sherlock ran as fast as he could, breathing hard now, but the man was still lengthening the distance between them. If Sherlock did not catch up soon, he might lose sight of the man. He followed the man to a small enclosure in the garden, walled in by hedges higher than Sherlock was tall. 

It had been built in the spirit of a garden maze, though it lacked the complexity to be a true maze. It offered five, maybe six turns before a guest would find themselves back at the beginning of the maze. With that fact in mind, Sherlock hoped that the close quarters might slow the man down and give Sherlock the chance to corner and/or incapacitate him. He briefly considered simply waiting at the entrance of the enclosure for the man to reemerge. His impatience and uncertainty won out over that decision, and he pursued the man into the maze.

Sherlock saw the man round a corner and hear him say something in a foreign tongue. Could it have been a spell? Sherlock wondered. Why else would the man have spoken at this time—a threat for Sherlock to desist? But no, if that was the case, he would likely have called out before that moment. So likely it was a spell, then. That also confirmed that the man was a mage, and in disguise in the palace. 

That left Sherlock with another decision to make. Sherlock could stop chasing the man now and leave him to whatever nefarious purpose he intended, or Sherlock could pursue him and trust in his own capability with magic to deal with whatever spell the mage had just cast. It took him less than a second to decide and he did not pause when he raced around the corner after the man.

Sherlock missed a step. There was no ground under his feet where there should be. The hedge walls were too far away to realistically reach for and, even if there had been something close enough for Sherlock to grab, his momentum would have carried him into the pit regardless.

The pit was not deep, perhaps four feet, if not less. Sherlock landed hard on a roiling mass, but he could still see the night sky above him and the crumbling dirt of the rim of the pit. He instinctively dug his hands into the moving mass below him to find some stability. He could not see the mage, though the man could not have made it far in the short time since he had cast the spell. Sherlock listened for the man’s footsteps, to see if the man had continued running or stopped to see his handiwork. 

It was then that Sherlock heard the hissing. It was so loud and so close that Sherlock could only attribute that fact that he had not heard it before that moment to the adrenaline pumping in his ears and his intense focus on the chase. The hissing was close and on all sides of him. He looked down for the first time and saw the thickly banded black and yellow body of a banded krait. Bungarus fasciatus, his mind provided unhelpfully, capable of being over six feet long and determined one of the four most venomous local snakes.

Sherlock tried to snatch his hands back from the snake but, having landed on his front and with no solid ground underneath him, he simply landed face first on the snake. He looked down and noticed that, because the mass beneath him was writhing, he had actually landed on a different snake when he fell the second time.

This one was thinner in width and had no discernable stripes, but as Sherlock looked up he realized he was face to face with this one. Sherlock unintentionally met its eyes. He noticed the flared hood high on its neck, with a large dark splotch on each side respectively. The hissing around Sherlock had grown to an almost deafening timber, but he did not notice.

_Naja naja..._ The deadliest venomous snake in the locale. 

The Indian cobra.

That was when Sherlock knew he was going to die.

“No.” Sherlock told the snake, maintaining eye contact. He did not know what he was denying, exactly, but he did know that there was no need to look away. He was not a coward. He would look death in its eyes, brave like a true prince of the empire. 

“No,” Sherlock said again, more strength in his voice this time. The snake’s gaze was still connected with his, and then suddenly—

The snake slithered out from underneath him. Sherlock’s palms came into contact with the soft soil of the pit and—

Sherlock could not believe he was still alive. Was he still alive? How could he still be alive? He looked up and saw that the blond mage was standing at the very far edge of the pit, spying down on Sherlock. Probably wondering why Sherlock was not dead yet, Sherlock figured. He rolled to his left, trying to find more solid ground so that he could take the miniscule, miraculous chance offered to him to perhaps escape this ordeal alive.

A thickly keeled body slithered over his hand, wide enough to obscure the entire back of his hand. Sherlock yelled and flinched away, drawing his hand up and unseating the echis carinatus, the saw scaled viper. It was yet another one the four deadliest snakes in the empire and it was gazing at him too, now. To Sherlock’s count, that was three of the four deadliest snakes his land could claim; he did not feel it was necessary to stick around and see whether the pit offered the complete set.

Sherlock had only just escaped the cobra, and the saw scaled viper, well… it did not look as if it would be satisfied with staring contest. The viper rose and turned toward Sherlock, clearly intent on coming closer. Sherlock scramble back, fingers clawing into the soft dirt as it gave way beneath his fingers, too soft to afford him any kind of speed.

Abruptly, the cobra was there between Sherlock and viper. Part of its sinuous body trailed over the viper’s tail. The cobra swayed as it began to rise. Sherlock’s scrabbling hands finally met the wall of the pit, thankfully not nearly as soft and giving as the ground. The cobra dipped as the saw scaled viper’s body writhed beneath it, both snakes gathering to strike. The last thing Sherlock saw before he hurriedly climbed the wall was the cobra opening its maw wide, extending gleaming fangs as long as its entire head as its still trailed along the ground of the pit, tangling with the viper’s.

Even after he had climbed fully out of the pit, more breathless from the adrenaline than the activity, Sherlock was almost in denial that he could still be alive after falling into the pit. He looked around, but he was alone. When he tried to regain his feet, he could not stand. His legs would not stay under him, even when he thought about the fact that the mage, and therefore Lord Tufaena, had gotten away and could be up to anything without anyone being the wiser.

After several minutes of deep breaths, Sherlock tried to stand once again. This time, he was able to get to his feet, wobbly though they were, and head back to the dining room. He did not know whether his nanny would have excused herself already, probably saying that she had sent Sherlock back to his room or made up some other excuse to cover her lapse, or whether she was still at the table under the pretense of waiting for him. He did not know then, that he was not going to find out.

Sherlock noticed that he was on the opposite side of the dining room from where he had been earlier. This was the side closer to the kitchens. The dining staff came and went from multiple hidden entrances, most of which were covered with curtains. 

As Sherlock came through the door, he saw the mage again. This time, the man was not doing anything so innocent as simply walking down a palace hallway. 

The mage had ascended onto the balcony where most of the servants took their meals. The servants always ate what leftovers there were from the nobles’ dinner, so it was convenient for their dining space to be close. In this particular dining room, a balcony had been set aside for the servants to dine, hidden from the majority of the dining room by large curtains. Since the majority of kitchen servants were still at work serving the nobles, the balcony was deserted. 

Though the contents of the mage’s hands were concealed from Sherlock, he could see that the man’s hands were busy. Sherlock was still below, on the main floor of the dining room, so he searched for one of the hidden entrances to the kitchen or balcony. He knew that if he appeared frantic, he would draw attention from the diners and likely alert the man he was attempting to thwart. Sherlock’s heart was pounding a demanding rhythm in his ears, demanding he act quickly with the adrenaline spiking his brain chemistry. 

As calmly as he could, Sherlock maneuvered his way to the nearest cloth wall hanging and peeked behind it. There was nothing but stone wall there. 

As he stepped back and allowed the hanging to return to its original position, a servant emerged from behind the next drape over—royal blue velvet with a gold lion embroidered on it, he stored the information about the location away for later use—and they startled each other. Sherlock was the first to recover, waving the man to continue on into the dining room with the platter of food he was carrying. Indecision was writ large on the man’s features for a moment, no doubt wondering if he should obey this child whose motives were clearly questionable even if he was the prince of the nation. Ultimately, the man continued on in his duty, though he cast a wary backward glance at Sherlock once more before making his way to the taster’s table. Sherlock caught the curtain before it fell back and slipped underneath it.

Sherlock emerged into a dim hall, lit by even fewer torch lamps than any of the halls he frequented, even the ones from earlier. He could hear the various sounds of the kitchen just fine, but his sight was very encumbered by the sudden onset of near complete darkness. Sherlock rapidly realized that the servants obviously could not complain about the issue and therefore likely received a lower standard of everything available in the palace. Sherlock had not considered it before, but now that he realized it, it struck him as a matter of fact. 

However, there were more pressing concerns at hand. Once Sherlock’s eyes had acclimated to the dimness enough to see the hall, he could see a set of stairs carved from the stone of the wall to his left. He ascended them rapidly, taking no care to muffle or silence his footsteps. However, it seemed that luck was on Sherlock’s side; although he burst from the stairway, the mage was too engrossed in his own task to notice Sherlock’s sudden appearance. 

Sherlock followed the mage’s gaze to another servant. She had just left the taster’s table with a golden pitcher, the only kind used to serve his mother and father. The mage’s hands lowered and a satisfied smirk stole across his face. Sherlock could not see any physical change in the servant’s appearance, and a geas was impractical and could not be cast without looking into the recipient’s eyes anyway. The enchantment was probably upon the pitcher, then. No, certainly upon the pitcher and/or its contents.

Sherlock’s options ran through his head at lightning speed. 

Call a warning? No, too vague. Sherlock did not know exactly what to yell a warning for, the pitcher or the vase. For all he knew, the servant carrying it could be in on the scheme and find some fumbling way to carry it out, or worse, act on a contingency plan Sherlock had no idea of, so would likely be unable to counter in such a short amount of time. No.

Try to counter the spell? How could he, when he did not even know what the spell was? He could guess, some kind of poison, maybe, or perhaps the drink was charmed. Maybe the pitcher was charmed to encourage aggression in the handler? He could not be sure. The possibilities were numerous, so regardless of the counter-spell he chose, the odds were very much against him. No.

Try to overpower the mage, and then force the man to information from him? What the spell was on, what the spell was, and how to counter it, all before the pitcher reached the table—no, Sherlock did not have that kind of time. And that was assuming that he was able to subdue the man who, although Sherlock had faith that his own education in magicks was more thorough, could command foreign magic that Sherlock could not understand himself. That would make defending against the mage’s spells difficult. So even if he could take the man down, in that short period of time—unlikely—could he trust the man to tell him the truth about the spell he had cast? Sherlock could place an honesty geas on him, but that was risky and would take time Sherlock did not have. No.

Intercede himself? Sherlock decided that was the only avenue left to him. If he leapt from the balcony and chanted the flight spell mid-fall, he could control his trajectory. He could fly down to the servant and stop the woman himself and—there was no more time for thinking. Adrenaline born of danger and anticipation flowed through each artery, each muscle. His heart was pounding in his ears, almost loud enough to deafen him.

Darting past the mage who still stood smiling down on his mischief from the edge of the hidden balcony, Sherlock dived over the edge. Falling rapidly, he spoke the flight spell, but nothing happened. His abruptly movement on the balcony had drawn the gazes of many of the courtiers. A few of the less controlled people raised their arms to point in surprise and interest.

Sherlock as falling face first towards the stone floor. The two storeys had seemed to be a great height when he had been climbing the stairs to the balcony, but now the ground was rushing at him in mere moments. He tried the spell once more and could finally breathe again as he felt some resistance come underneath him, stopping him from falling so quickly. 

Sherlock’s success at casting had happened in the nick of time. There was less than two feet of space between his body and the floor when he used his arms to bank toward the servant carrying the pitcher. His rapid swerve left no time for the servant to react in defense, so Sherlock collided directly with the woman. 

The pitcher’s contents—wine, Sherlock could see—splattered all over the servant and the empty floor behind her. Sherlock angled his chest sharply upward to achieve a greater distance from the floor. When he had achieved enough distance, his body was in a near standing position, and it was easy for Sherlock to simply cancel the spell, drop the shorts ways to the floor and land on his feet.

Sherlock did not waste any time. He pointed up at the balcony where the mage stared down at Sherlock. “Up there! Arrest that man! He enchanted the wine!” 

The man looked gobsmacked at what Sherlock had just done and had frozen in surprise as Sherlock had zipped past him. When Sherlock pointed an incriminating finger at him, the mage seemed to come back to himself and flinched. He jerkily moved back into the shadow of the unlit balcony, but Sherlock could see the guards stationed at the walls already moving to apprehend the man. 

Sherlock absently noted an unpleasant tingling on his arm where some of the wine had spilled on him, but a choked sound stole his attention. He turned back, eyes skimming the shocked faces of the still seated courtiers. Palace guards had swiftly congregated around the head of the table where his mother and father sat and, to a lesser degree, around Mycroft whose gobsmacked expression mirrored the mage’s. The sound had not come from any of them, though; in fact, other than that one, truncated noise, the people remaining in the room were completely silent. Sherlock followed the gazes of most of the courtiers. 

The servant that had been doused in wine had collapsed to the dining floor, seizing. As Sherlock watched, she rapidly turned a deep maroon, then purple, and then blue. A foamlike liquid had begun to ooze from her eyes. Sherlock stared, feeling eerily detached, and he realized academically that he had likely fallen into shock. Sherlock hardly noticed the guards that had come to stand around him until on stepped into his line of sight, blocking the macabre scene.

The guards ushered Sherlock to where the rest of his family was gathered. Sherlock noticed that although he had not been paying attention, the courtiers had clearly been ordered to remain seated until the royal family had been evacuated. The nobles all seemed to be just barely keeping to their chairs and they clearly wanted to escape the scene, as well. Or get closer, Sherlock was not sure which. 

Uncharacteristically, Jaituna had retrieved Sherlock and her hands encased his shoulders as the family swiftly exited the room. He noticed that the guards had apprehended the assassin, gagged him, and were taking him somewhere. The dungeons, Sherlock’s mind filled in, sluggishly. 

Peripherally, Sherlock heard his mother inform the guards that they would head towards Sherlock’s room first. Siger’s voice had been a wispy sound, barely registering in Sherlock’s mind, as he had leaned over to Sherlock’s mother and voiced an enquiry. She had informed him in her usual calm tone that she would accompany Sherlock in returning to his rooms. 

It appeared that the assassination attempt had achieved some emotional effect on his mother, Sherlock thought detachedly. It was out of character for her to see to his safety first, so that was unlikely to be the reason she insisted on escorting him. Perhaps she wished to scold him for the recklessness of the actions he had taken that night, in private.

Time passed strangely in Sherlock’s disconnected state and from one second to the next, they had arrived at his suite of rooms. A significant number of guards detached from their—entirely conspicuous, Sherlock realized for the first time—escort and stayed posted outside of the room. Two guards, whose complementary actions indicated that they were partners, entered Sherlock’s rooms first to assess whether there was any additional danger lying in wait. 

After the suite was deemed sufficiently safe, Sherlock and Jaituna were allowed to enter. At the empress’ request for privacy, the guards and servants remained in the sitting room, though Sherlock’s ever-present nanny was exempt from that order. She retreated to an inconspicuous corner of Sherlock’s room and Sherlock, as was typical, went back to ignoring her presence completely.

It had been years since his mother had last visited Sherlock’s rooms. Her regal presence seemed to fill up the space differently than it had when he was younger, before he had learned the pretensions that were required of the royal family at court. It had been so long since Sherlock had interacted with his mother in private; it was difficult to look at his mother and only see her as that, not the empress she had to be in public. He had the novel feeling of being nervous around her. Thankfully, she broke the silence first.

“Sherlock,” Jaituna began, stiltedly, “What is that mark on your arm?”

Sherlock raised his arm to inspect the area she had indicated. There was a bright red splotch on his arm, like a sunburn, though it did not hurt at all. He belatedly realized that it was the same place where the servant had spilled the wine on him earlier. He mentioned that to his mother.

Jaituna was frozen for a moment, her face blank. Abruptly, she drew Sherlock into her arms and held him tight. He was surrounded by her warmth and her floral scent as she embraced him, and it was enough to finally leach the tension from him. She pressed her face to his hair and her voice was wobbly for the first time he could remember. After a few moments, he felt her tears dampen his hair and understood the shakiness of her voice. His answering embrace was hesitant, but then it became strong, and he hugged her as tightly as she held him. 

If his mother was this perturbed, then the wine had truly been a close call.

“I didn’t mention it because Mycroft told me I should not to give information freely to our enemies.”

Jaituna stiffened a bit at his statement, then raised her head from Sherlock’s a let out a tremulous bark of laughter. 

“That boy,” Jaituna said ruefully. “My poor, over-serious son. Though, that isn’t necessarily wrong, and you’re getting into real trouble these days, it seems, not like swapping the cinnamon with red pepper.”

Jaituna loosened her embrace and drew back enough to smile fondly down at Sherlock.

“Oh, you knew about that?” Sherlock asked. “I had not thought that you were paying attention.”

Distress distorted Jaituna’s face for a moment before it smoothed over. “I apologize if I seem like I’m neglecting you, Sherlock. The empire has been in a state of underlying unrest for the last few years, and it concerns me. I do not want to worry you, but I do care about you, even when there are some times when I’m unavailable or unable to see you.”

“Yes, but you care about the empire more.” Sherlock said, half statement and half question.

“… Yes.” Jaituna replied, guiltlessly. “But surely you must see that the empire must come first, for all our sakes.”

The phrasing reminded Sherlock of Mycroft. The smile that curled his lips was involuntary, but he allowed it to stay there. The longer they stood here talking and hugging, he began to remember what it had been like before her distance. He remembered their little adventures and traditions, rituals and secrets that were only for the two of them. Mycroft appreciated Sherlock’s wit at times, but Mycroft could never understand Sherlock’s inquisitive nature the way Jaituna had. Did. He truly had missed his mother.

Sherlock was struck by a memory and keeping with the sentimental atmosphere, decided to voice it, “Do you remember our bedtime ritual?”

Jaituna was too controlled to let the confusion cross her face, but Sherlock waited a hopeful moment and she exclaimed, Oh! Yes, I do. Did you want to do that?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Alright then, go on and change into your nightclothes, my little sher. I’ll go and find a good book.” His mother offered.

Sherlock did as he was bid and was soon tucked into bed at his mother’s direction. She settled beside him and he cuddled into her side. Back when they had started this, Sherlock had sat in her lap. He was too big for that now, only about a head shorter than his mother, so he knew that he would not fit.

Still, as was part of the tradition, he leaned over and tried to guess the tale the book told from the illustrations on the cover, ignoring the title. He did not have to guess at the tale this time, though. The book that she held in her hand had always been one of his favorites. When he recognized the story, he recited a line.

“In my opinion, it is a golden rule—”

“Better to be lonely than to be with a fool,” they finished together.

“Very good, Sherlock,” his mother praised, and pet his head. 

When Sherlock had been much younger, his mother had read a fable to him every night. As he had begun his studies and learned how to read, she had him read the story to her instead. Sherlock began reading the fairytale about the gardener who had befriended a bear, when he abruptly remembered his own adventure in the garden earlier that evening.

“Mummy!” Sherlock exclaimed, startling Jaituna when he shot up straight. Sherlock wove the tale of his episode in the garden to his mother, who grew progressively paler.

“Mummy, I've gone over it multiple times in my head! Why did none of them try to bite me when I landed on top of them? I had startled them; I could tell. If any one of them had bitten me, I could have died, and yet none of them even tried. Until the saw scaled, but then the cobra seemed to defend me which is even stranger… I don’t understand, mummy…” 

By the time that Sherlock had finished, his mother wore an anxious expression.

“Sherlock, there’s… something you need to know—”

“Your Majesty!” Sherlock’s nanny cut in abruptly, interrupting the empress’ speech. “You said you wouldn’t—”

The woman cut herself off, apparently just realizing in that moment that she had interrupted the ruler of the entire empire. Sherlock’s looked up at his mother. She had a face like stone and was staring straight ahead with a thunderous expression. The room was deathly silent and Sherlock could tell by the tense way his mother had pursed her lips that his mother was holding back her instinctive response. 

Slowly, as if she was a statue just come to life, Jaituna spoke to Sherlock as if his nanny had not interrupted. Where her voice was hesitant the first time, it was like iron the second time, “Sherlock, there is something that you need to know, but first you must promise me that the information will not leave this room. Mycroft seems to think that you are ready enough to handle more mature issues, and I respect that judgement.”

Sherlock could not imagine what his mother could possibly be about to tell him that required such a grave manner, but he said, “I promise, mummy.”

Jaituna’s gaze flicked momentarily to the cowering woman in the corner, a warning, before she took a deep breath and continued, “You and Mycroft are both my sons, but you are not like your brother.”

Sherlock could not understand what she meant. There were obvious dissimilarities between him and Mycroft, though he was certain his mother would not stoop to saying something so obvious, so… “Are you talking about that rumor that Mycroft is not papa’s son?”

There was a rumor that threw Mycroft’s parentage into question. According to the royal physician, Mycroft’s was simply born prematurely after eight months after Jaituna’s marriage to Siger instead of nine, but some speculated that he was born on time and had actually been the child of the empress’ late husband. The reason that the rumor had persisted for so long was because it threw the entire line of succession into question. 

Officially, everyone who was relevant to the matter had accepted that Siger was Mycroft’s sire. Still, people argued, if the truth was that Siger was not Mycroft’s father, then he had no right to sit on the throne as emperor. Mycroft would have been emperor, and an emperor regent would have ruled by Jaituna’s side until Mycroft came of age. Sherlock thought people should have better things to do with their time than gossip about things that would never come to pass, but he had long since acknowledged that people were idiots.

“No,” Jaituna said shortly in response, and Sherlock had the feeling that she would have paled even more if she had not already been at her limit. “I mean that you are not a child of my womb.”

… What? Sherlock’s mind could not parse that. 

Jaituna waited for Sherlock’s response to that. When all she received from him was a wide-eyed stare and stunned silence, she continued, “You were a gift from the snake god, the Snake Queen. Not long after your father arranged Mycroft’s engagement, and while I was still peeved with him about it, he sent a gift to me in a casket. When I opened it, there you were. Your father and I had been wishing so hard for another son that I first thought he had adopted one who looked like him, but then, you have always had my mother’s eyes. One cannot craft a life force from anything besides another source of life, so I had wondered what type of dangerous magic your father had gotten into. However, when I confronted him about the gift, he told me that he had sent me a coronet. When he had last seen it, it had been in the form of a snake. He was able to quickly call back the peasant woman who had sold it to us. She informed us that it was magic, which I’m sure you’ve guessed by now, my smart boy.”

Sherlock could only mutely nod.

“Well,” Jaituna continued, then hesitated, her voice softening as Sherlock was still too shocked to reply. “long story short, you were a snake. The woman picked you up from the banks of a river and as soon as she had hidden you away in a pot, you transformed into the coronet that your father received. Of course, we had to research this. Unidentified magic cannot be kept so close the royal family, for obvious reasons. That was when we found that you were from the Snake Queen’s particular brand of magic. You know from your studies that magic often responds well to a pure, focused desire. Well, it so happens that the Snake Queen’s magic responds particularly well, though we were assured after you had been with us for a few months that you had settled. Still, if anyone outside of the enchantment discusses your true nature, you will turn back into a snake, forever.”

“I…” Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but was still unsure of what to say. He was not human? Were his parents really the only people who knew the secret? If he turned involuntarily into a snake, would it really have to be forever. It made some twisted sort of sense now, why those snakes in the pit had not attacked him immediately. They likely sensed some kinship with him which had confused them, or at the lest made them hesitate. 

“Are you… so you’re not…” Sherlock’s voice was small and stuttering. “You’re not really my mom, then?”

Jaituna was quick to respond to that and all uncertainty instantly left her face, “No, I _am absolutely_ your mummy, Sherlock. Oh, you poor dear. Come here.”

Jaituna wrapped him in her arms once more. It was not until he was in her stable arms that he realized he was trembling all over. When he sucked in a sharp breath, the state of his sinuses alerted him to the fact that he had also been crying. Her warmth and her scent were the balm to his hurt, again, along with her assurance that she did truly consider him her son. 

There was a reason that his mummy was empress, Sherlock thought, feeling much better, if a little wrung out. Mummy really could fix anything.

Appeased, Sherlock vowed to research as much as he could about the snake god’s magic at the nearest opportunity. 

“And your father is your father. Mycroft does not know, and you can not tell him. You can not tell anyone.” His mother said as she rubbed Sherlock’s back soothingly.

Sherlock pulled back from her and gave her a watery smile. Things were honestly not so different. He had always known that he was different from mostly everyone else. The only people he had been able to connect with had been his family and it was honestly sort of a relief to find out that there might be a reason for that, that it was not just because he was defective. As his mother rubbed his back, his gaze caught on his nanny, who was still shifting from foot to foot in the shadowed corner.

“But, what about…” Sherlock started.

At his hesitation, his mother drew back to study him. She followed his gaze and said, “Hadsana also knows about you. She was the woman who brought you to the palace. We honored her by keeping her on as your nanny.” 

Sherlock was a little taken aback. To honor her? He ran Hadsana ragged with his complaints and demands, although she did seem to have a strange fondness for him, despite that. Was it truly an honor to have to put up with him all day? Still, she was the one who had brought him to the palace. She was the one who had found him first.

“So, you’re also kind of my mother, like my godmother. My snake god mother,” Sherlock told Hadsana. 

Jaituna stiffened and a discomfited look passed over her face as she looked at Hadsana. At Sherlock’s words, Hadsana had brightened considerably, but after seeing the empress’ expression, she replied, “Oh, no, not at all! Perish the thought, your highness!”

Jaituna was appeased by this and turned away. Sherlock thought that Hadsana still looked sort of pleased at the thought that Sherlock thought of her as his godmother. He felt warm at the thought. He considered trying not to manipulate her so harshly in the future. Maybe he could whine a little less?

That reminded him of the cause of the majority of his whining. Even after all of the excitement today, he knew he would be just as bored tomorrow as he had been earlier that morning. Since they were in such close proximity and the atmosphere was still heavily charged with sentiment, it did not take Jaituna long to notice the discontent expression on Sherlock’s’ face.

“What is it, Sherlock?” She looked worried, and Sherlock did not have to be a genius—though he certainly was one—to know that she was worried that he had more concerns about his birth. Although he did, Sherlock had decided to look into those himself, so he was quick to reassure his mother. 

“Nothing, I’m just bored.” Sherlock said.

Jaituna stared at him for a moment. Other than her eyebrows, which had risen a minute amount in surprise, her face was unreadable. Then, she burst into chuckles.

“Let us just confirm,” she started, and then had to stop because she was laughing so uproariously. “Let us confirm that today you have fallen into a snake pit, foiled a regicidal plot, and—” she lowered her voice significantly, but it was still full of laughter, “—learned the secret of your birth, and the first thing that you say is that you are bored?”

Sherlock’s lips lifted at the corners, but he did not laugh. Hadsana was chuckling, as well. He was not sure if they also knew about what had happened during the Hearing of the Public Grievances, but he certainly was not going to give them more reason to laugh at him.

“Today wasn’t quite so bad,” Sherlock ignored the return of his mother’s amusement, “but I’m bored with my studies and life in the palace is so—”

_Banal._

_Dreary._

_Insipid._

_Irksome._

_Tiresome._

_Trite._

_Tedious._

“— _boring._ My spellwork is as advanced as my tutors can get. Well, some of they say they know more but aren’t comfortable teaching it to _me._ And that mage today, he used foreign magic! And it was so fascinating, if only I could study that! But foreign magics aren’t allowed in close proximity, so how would I learn it? Who would I even learn it from? That’s not to mention my basic maths and history, so tedious. I learned every relevant thing ages ago. There’s nothing new or exciting here and my entire day is full of people telling me what I can’t do and stopping me halfway through doing what I want to do.”

Jaituna’s smile wavered. “I had no idea you were so unhappy, my little sher… This is the life you were born into. Your position can not change, and even if it could I would not wish it on you, but I don’t see why you could not… yes, I am sure of it. Our lack of knowledge about foreign magicks is to our detriment. We cannot simply hide our heads in the sand and hope our enemies do not see us. Today was proof enough of that, and we still have some allies among some foreign nations. Though I would normally hesitate to send you away, tonight’s occurrences have made it clear to me that the palace is likely not the safest place for you, even if you were by my side each hour in the day, which you cannot be.”

Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat in excitement. He eyed his mother in disbelief. It sounded as if she was saying he might get out of the palace, away from the monotony of the contradictory restrictions he suffered under every day. 

Jaituna motioned for Sherlock to lie down. Once he had, she pulled the covers up over his chest and arms and tucked him in.

“Mummy, are you saying that I can go to learn about foreign magic in another land?” Sherlock had to be sure that he was understanding correctly. This was not the time to allow wishful thinking to influence him. 

Sure, he might possibly miss being away from pretty much everything that had ever been familiar to him—his rooms, his teachers, the palace grounds, his nanny—but the familiarity of their presence was hardly comforting in his current situation. His mind was too idle, and he swore most days that he could feel himself getting more stupid by the second. If that went on for much longer, he really would break every vase in the palace. And, well… if his family was not gone, he could not miss them.

If that was really what his mother was offering, he would jump at the chance and never look back. 

“Yes, that is what I am saying, Sherlock.” Jaituna smiled at him, but it did not show her teeth and looked a little pained. It was obvious that she did not want to send her son away. “I believe that we still have one or two allies that I trust to take you in and teach you their ways. I will speak with your father about it in the morning—”

“Thank you, mummy!” Sherlock bolted upright in bed. He would have jumped from the bed entirely if it had not been for his mother’s stern look and raised finger.

“Ah, no,” Jaituna tsked, and wagged her finger at him. “Go to sleep now, Sherlock. I will sleep in one of your other rooms tonight, nearby so there will be no more mischief. From assassins, or from you.”

Sherlock settled back under his linen. Jaituna turned to leave the room, pausing only to say, “Make sure he sleeps, Hadsana.”

Then the empress was gone. 

A few seconds after his mother left, he could hear his father’s muted voice. His mother’s reply, if there was one, was too soft for Sherlock to make out. Siger had returned to Sherlock’s rooms. Sherlock waited for a few still moments to see if his father would come in to see him, but the door stayed closed. It was as Sherlock had expected; Siger had only come to check on his mother.

Sherlock knew that Jaituna would always be first in Siger’s mind. The empire was his mother’s primary concern, and always had been. Mycroft was always harping on about freedom and privacy, clearly his priorities. Sherlock convinced himself that his mind was first for him, his most important thing. Sherlock knew his family cared about him, each one in their own different way, but he was not sure it was enough. Sometimes he did not want the weight of their care, of their pressures and expectation on him… but other times, Sherlock felt so alone. He wondered if they would even miss him if he was gone.

That was not why he was so excited to leave, though. Just thinking of all the new things he would find, the discoveries he would make on his visit, stretched his mouth into a wide grin. His mother had said that she would speak to his father about it, but Sherlock knew his parents. Once his mother had her mind set on something, such as a promise to her son, Siger would do whatever he needed to do in order to make it happen.

“Go to sleep, your highness,” Hadsana—Sherlock decided he would actually remember her name from now on—cajoled him. Maybe he would even do as she bid him to do… once in a while… when it was convenient.

Sherlock closed his eyes and welcomed sleep that night. He wanted to dream about all of the new adventures he would have once he escaped the palace. One last, discordant thought flittered through his mind before sleep claimed him:

He wondered if he would ever be first for anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, adults! (THANK. GOD.)
> 
> Sherlock is waaaaay OOC for an 11-yr-old child, even a precocious one (like I imagine John to be) but hey, he's Sherlock.
> 
> I hope I conveyed his bittersweet relationship with Mycroft successfully in this chapter. He's overbearing and annoying, but he loves Sherlock and vice versa. Sherlock still admires him, at this point.
> 
> Leave me a comment if you want to talk plot points, characterization, the setting of the story, etc. I basically obsess over this so I have lots to say if you want to discuss it, lol. If you're shy, my email's in my bio :-)


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry writes a Dear John letter.
> 
> And then there's Drama.
> 
> Also, John has grown from a teenage brat into a mature grown man-brat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There is some brief description of animal butchery, just a couple of lines. I tried to keep it vague so that it wouldn't squick anyone.
> 
> I will honestly tell you right now that I don't know much of anything about the military. Much like the native culture in this story, I am pulling most of this out of thin air or cobbling it together from my limited experiences. Please don't hesitate to let me know if I've done something wrong or something that offends you. If it offends you, it probably offends others as well, and that is nowhere near my goal for this fic.

John,

It’s Harry. I hope everything is well with you. Everyone back home has been talking about the border skirmishes, so I hope you’re staying safe. I doubt anything could pierce your thick skull, but it’s better not to gamble with that.

I have some bad news. Papa has been injured. He got caught up in some rope while we were hauling one of the nets in, then he fell off the boat. When I was able to pull him back onboard, he was unconscious. Thankfully, the river was calm that day and I was able to get him out before he had drifted far. Mik is the town doctor now (I haven’t had to go and see that brat for years) and I went to see him. Papa’s right arm and right leg are broken in multiple places. Some of the bone shattered. Mik says the majority of the damage happened when papa was crushed between the ropes, not when he fell. He did hit his head though, and Mik says we’ll have to wait and see what damage is there. Papa wakes up for short periods of time, but he sleeps most days.

Please come home, John. Papa needs us both here. He’s healing and I don’t want to move him, but I hate that he has to stay at the doctor’s residence with all the ill people. As soon as he’s healed enough to move, I want to bring him home. I’m worried he will catch something if we don’t bring him home soon. Also, I can’t run the business by myself and take care of papa. We need your help. Please come home, peach. 

I love you, be careful,  
Harry, son of Wat  
 

 

 

Dear Plum,

I’m sorry to hear about papa. I’ll be home as soon as I can.

It’s very bad here. I don’t know when this letter will be able to get out. 

I was just promoted to captain. I’ll ask for leave as soon as possible. I don’t know when I’ll be able to get out.

I love and miss you both. Take care and don’t overwork yourself. I’m sending my pay home to you. It’s won’t do me any good here. Use it to hire someone to take care of papa, if possible, or stay home and take care of him yourself.

 ~~I’ll be home soon~~ I’ll see you when I can,

John, son of Wat

 

 

 

John walked down the dirt road to his home.

Home. He had been back home to visit since his abrupt departure ten years ago, but only to visit. Not like this—not to stay.

A lot of things were as he had left them, though there seemed to be an influx of people in his district now. Where his street had previously had two or three families with children, now there seemed to be a multitude. He passed a large group of them. There were fifteen to twenty children gathered there, playing a singing game. Besides the children, no one else was out. John thought it was strange that such a large group of children were out with no adults present but told himself that he had more important concerns. He continued on without a word to the group, though he nodded and smiled at the few who looked up to watch him pass. They watched him warily until he was some ways down the street. John turned back toward his destination and frowned.

‘Those children are so young, definitely in the years when they should be regarding everything with innocent curiosity. Why would such young children already be so wary of adults? They look so… jaded.’ John thought. 

John conceded to himself that he did not know much about thee correct way children should grow up. He had been in the Royal Army since he had abruptly left home at 17, quitting his role as the unofficial apprentice to the village doctor. Mik had been the man’s official apprentice, and everyone involved had known that John would likely not be able to stay on. He was going into the family business; everyone knew. 

John had felt somewhat self-righteous when he had chosen his own path, into the military, against everyone’s expectations. It had felt good to show everyone that they were wrong about him, that John Watson was not a one-page book. He wanted to support justice in his nation, however he could. That was why, when a recruiter had waved him down in the marketplace, he had been very interested in what the officer had to say. 

John loved his family, and if they had truly needed him then the choice between staying and leaving would have been much harder. Wat and Harry had not needed John, though. They had missed him (and he, them) going by their letters. 

Harry’s most recent letter had worried him. As Harry had listed them, Wat’s injuries had seemed quite extensive. John was not sure if his father would be able to make a full recovery or, if he could, how long that might take. John still had a bit of medical knowledge—some of his training and duties had been too gruesome to forget—and he could minimally imagine what sort of damage had occurred during his father’s trauma. Still, John was also used to Harry and her wild descriptions of things. She was more than prone to exaggeration; John was not sure if she could ever truly abstain from elevating a situation to the most dramatic level it could reach. 

John’s request for leave had been denied by his superior officer, though it had taken the man three entire months to even respond. It might not have been wartime in the capital, but they had been in constant combat on the border. Harry’s letter had made it plain and obvious that she did not know the situation John had been in, which told John that the politicians had not deemed the matter important enough to inform the public. 

John supposed it did not matter to most nobles that peasants were dying almost every day in order to protect their freedoms, their luxuries, and their lives. Each of John’s rare experiences with nobility had taught him that they were first and foremost selfish creatures. They had all the privileges in the world; what would they care about some distant battle, even if it was to maintain those privileges?

John’s platoon had only just finished subduing an attack on the southern border of the nation, after months of grueling battle. John was sure there were still bits of dried mud flaking off of him, and that was after he had washed several times. He was a captain though. He was a man now, with responsibilities to more than just his family. The men under his command were owed a leader, and John had been given a wartime promotion that had eventually been made officially.

He was John Watson, Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and he was damned proud of each and every member of his company.

John hoped that he would come home, see that his father was not as bad off as Harry had stated, then take a quick bath and fall into bed. He did not have it in him to do much else. He had slept in the caravan that had returned him to his district, but the trip had been turbulent. He had gotten a nap, at best, and he had quite a bit of sleep to catch up on.

John eased a bit as his childhood home came into his sight, shoulders leaching tension that John had not noticed was there until it had left. He spared a thought to his neighbor’s child, little Jaituna, and how she might have grown as he passed their home. John opened the gate and spied the familiar lamp hanging by the door, wick unlit. So many things were exactly the same; had anything changed?

John entered his home. He paused briefly to caress the top of the box by the door, and he spared a small smile for the tiny rabbit figurine that sat next to it, which had used to belong to his mother. Then he turned to walk into the house fully and shut the door.

The house was dark. The shades over the windows were still pulled back, which would have let any sunlight in. However, it was just past dusk there was very little natural light to be had. Because of that, the floors of the house were completely shadowed and the walls were not much better. John reached out a hand, searching for the candle that had always sat in the corner of their sitting room window. His hand only encountered the cool clay that made up the windowsill, no candle to be found. So, it seemed some things had changed.

‘It’s just a small thing, though,’ John convinced himself. ‘No need to be unnerved by it.’ 

John shrugged it off and slid his bag off of his shoulder. It contained all of the belongings he had been able to bring back from his post, including the souvenirs he had picked up for his family he had been unable to send by post when the fighting had escalated. He continued into the hall that led out of the sitting room, which was the main hallway of their home. Each of their rooms were situated to one side of the hallway or the other. 

“Hello, is anyone home?” John called out. His father’s room was the closest to the front of the house and was the first door that John encountered. John knocked at the door, but there was no answer. He recalled that Harry’s letter had stated their father slept most of the day and wondered whether Wat had not answered because he was still asleep. 

John gingerly pushed the door to his father’s room open. He opened it slowly, so as not to startle his father if he was inside, all the while thinking of other places his father might be, if not in his room. Perhaps John should check the garden next. It was possible, with such a great injury, Wat may still be residing with the village doctor. John hoped that was not the case. Out of all of the desires he had for his return, he primarily wanted to find out that Harry’s recounting of his father’s injuries was an exaggeration.

Wat was lying in his bed, peacefully asleep. John approached him. There was a window in Wat’s room, cut into the wall above the head of Wat’s bed. Even though John could not see much in the failing light, he picked out the sheen of scars, spidering across the visible half of his father’s face like ragged vines. The quilt had been pulled up over Wat’s chest, almost to his neck, so John could not see much more than that. The severity of the scarring was a harbinger of dread, though. It gave John the feeling that his hopes Harry had overstated the situation were likely in vain.

John carefully backed out of his father’s room, trying to make his footsteps as light as possible. Wat did not stir as John pulled the door closed between them, shutting himself into the hallway. John turned further down the hallway, searching room to room. He did not call out again because he did not want to risk waking Wat. The house was empty.

John entered the garden by the house’s backdoor. The trees and small garden in the small plot of land behind their home looked to be faring well, though it was slightly less lush than John remembered. Harry was not out there, either. 

John reentered the house and decided to wait for Harry. He knew that undertaking all of the fishmonger duties herself was likely time-consuming and exhausting. When all three of them, or even when it had only been Wat and Harry, had carried out the duties as a team, they would have been home by now. John could not begrudge his sister taking a little longer; it was a lot of work.

John set to work preparing dinner while he waited for Harry to get home or Wat to wake up. He was happy to see that their pantry was well-stocked. John had hoped to ease the strain on Harry as much as possible until he was able to return home. It appeared that, although he had been absent, he had been able to help. It eased some of John’s concern.

By the time Harry returned, it was well into the evening. John had begun to worry, both for Harry and Wat, who had yet to wake up. He had been told that his father slept a lot, but was he truly expected to sleep the entire night through. 

John acknowledged that only part of his anxiousness was because of concern. He also wanted to talk to his father who he had not seen in years. 

Harry came through the down clumsily, and for a moment, John wondered if she had sustained injuries, too. Then she straightened, swiped a hand out to paw at the box by the door and entered the house. She shut the door behind her and began fumbling around on the shelf. John could only assume it was for a candle.

“Harry?” John’s quiet voice cut through the sounds of her fumbling and she jumped.

Harry tried to whirl around to the direction the sound had come from but overshot and had to steady herself with a hand on the mantle. 

“John,” Harry called, peering into the darkness in John’s general direction, “is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me, Harry,” John replied, smiling, and he stepped forward to hug his sister.

John wrapped Harry in his arms and hugged her fiercely, though her own arms were slow to lift and return the embrace. There was a strange fermented smell on her clothes, but it had mixed too thoroughly with the smells of river and fish for John to discern exactly what it was. They separated, and John tried to make out Harry’s features.

“So, you finally made it back, huh?” Harry said, and detangled herself from John to continue searching for some candles. John had expected his welcome home to be a warmer than that.

Harry unearthed the candles from further down the mantle and lit several. She declined John’s offer of assistance as she went from room to room and lit the lamps. She spent a greater amount of time in their father’s room than the others, though not by much. 

When she returned to the front of the house, she passed John without a word and took a portion of the food. John followed her to the kitchen.

“What’s wrong, Harry?” John asked, leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen while Harry ate silently.

“What’s wrong? Why would anything be wrong, John?” Harry asked, acidly. “I’ve only been taking care of our handicapped father for the last six months, while you were off exploring!”

John was stunned and hurt. He had come home as soon as possible, and he had not been off playing around or whatever it was that Harry was getting at.

“I came home as soon as possible, Harry.” John replied, trying to remain calm. He was terrible at keeping his emotions off of his face though, and he figured Harry could read some of his irritation.

“I don’t believe you.” Harry said stonily, setting her plate down and crossing her arms. “If that was the case, you could have written me back or sent word by a courier. It isn’t as if you don’t make enough money.”

“What?” John was incredulous. “Harry, I _did_ reply to your letter! And I’ve been having all of my pay sent back here! Haven’t you been getting it?”

Harry grunted and pulled a clay jug down from a shelf carved into the wall. John did not know what it contained, but he could hear its contents sloshing around inside. Harry set it down on the counter but kept her fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle.

“I don’t believe that either. Everyone knows that soldiers get paid a lot more than what you’ve been sending here. And you’re trying to convince me that I somehow got all of your other letters and not this last one? I’ve grown up since you left, John. I’m not that gullible anymore.” Harry spat.

John was not sure what to say. He and Harry were not on the same page, as he had assumed. There was a misunderstanding between them, and Harry clearly was not going to accept the truth. John had not bothered to prepare a lie—why would he have?

“Harry, I’m telling you the truth. I sent all I have to you and to Mik to help out with papa’s medical costs.” John reiterated himself, strained.

“Hmph,” Harry said, and pointedly turned her back to John in order to lower the fabric shade over the kitchen window.

John knew that his tentative control over his anger often made him say harsh things when enraged. This was not the time for that kind of slip up. He truly wanted to avoid adding that kind of fuel to this already tense situation but knowing it and being able to do it were two different things entirely. John wanted to end this argument soon in order to avoid making it worse. 

“Harry… at any rate, it doesn’t matter now. I came home as quickly as I could—”

“Six months!” Harry interjected, but John continued as if she had not spoken, though his voice became a bit more strident.

“—and now I’m here, to help with papa and the business and to help run the household.” John finished.

Harry whirled back to face him. She crowded him, jabbing her finger aggressively towards his face. She absently dragged the clay pot across the counter behind her, and John looked down at the scraping sound. Harry did not seem to notice she had done it.

“Run the household?! How dare you come back and say you’re going to run the household.” Harry fairly screeched. This close, John could clearly see her now: her stained clothes hanging loosely off of her, the splotches in her cheeks, her uneven stumbling gait…

“You’re drunk,” John said darkly. 

“Are you judging me, now? Is that what this is?!” Harry yelled, too loud in the small kitchen. John was loath to even try to touch her in this state, but he wanted to get some space or Harry would deafen him. “Not everyone can just run off when they have a problem, John! I had to stay because you wouldn’t and it’s stressful and I’m all by myself and I’m a grown woman and I don’t need you! I can handle the business all alone, I have for the last seven months and I can do what I want!”

“What…” a voice came from behind John, but Harry was still rambling too loudly to hear it. John heard it and turned to the side.

“And now you think you can just come back,” Harry continued, though John had turned and most of his focus was toward deciphering the figure of his father from the shadows. “Now that everything is better and settled and I’ve done all the work? No, John! I won’t stand for it. If that’s how… if that’s how you expect it to be, you may as well go back! Just run away again!”

Wat had lurched closer to the spilled light of the kitchen lamps, and John was able to see his father dressed in a loose, overlarge shirt and walking with the aid of two crutches. Wat appeared smaller than John remembered, but John considered that may be just because John had grown bigger himself. Wat approached until he could wrap John in his arms in a bear hug. John noticed that his father leaned on him more heavily than before, likely for support in the momentary absence of the crutches. When Wat had leaned back and stabilized himself on his crutches, John finally looked back to Harry. She was glaring at the both of them.

“Yes, your son is back home,” Harry said acidly. Then, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and visibly tried to rein herself in. John imagined it had to be difficult to accomplish when her face likely burned from liquor and she seemed to lose her balance immediately when her eyes were not open. “Are you hungry, papa?”

Wat took a moment to answer, as if gathering enough breath for words was difficult. “No… Harry… thank… you.”

Wat ended his statement with a nod as if to show that he was finished speaking.

“You should eat a little something,” Harry insisted. She pulled a mango from a bowl on the counter and began peeling it with a knife. When John saw how she peered down at the knife and how her hands trembled, he wrestled the knife away from her. Harry protested at a volume that John thought was probably loud enough to wake their neighbors on both sides of the house.

Once John finally had the knife, Harry glared at him even more. She threw the mango at John’s head. John had been through extensive military training; the least he could do was catch something that was thrown directly at his face. 

Harry seemed even more upset that she had been died her revenge. She shoved past John, though she slowed down and carefully maneuvered around Wat. John craned his neck around the kitchen doorframe and saw her disappear down the hallway. A few moments later, there was the sound of her cursing and then the slam of a room door. For all their sakes, John hoped it was the door to the washroom. Harry fiercely needed a bath.

John looked back to his father, who had a chagrined expression on his face.

“Don’t worry about her, John. She’ll come around. The last few months have been hard on her, but she still loves you.” Wat said, trying to soothe the anger and hurt that was probably writ large across his son’s face.

“Yeah, she loves me?” John asked bitterly, incredulous. It was only after he said this that he looked around and noticed that Harry had taken the bottle with her. It was probably even more liquor. John sighed heavily. This was not at all the way he had imagined his homecoming.

“I’m glad to have you back, son,” Wat said warmly, grasping John arm in a quick show of support.

“I’m glad to see you, too,” John replied, and considered returning the gesture but realized he still held the knife and the fruit. 

John finished slicing and peeling the fruit for Wat and handed it to him on a plate. Because it was difficult for him to stand for long periods of time, Wat sat down to eat. He and John caught up with each other: John told him about the battles he had been in and how he had achieved his promotion Wat talked about the how the fishing had been lately—even though he had gotten all of his information secondhand from Harry—about the accident, and his recovery.

“Your room is still there, for when you’re ready to sleep,” Wat offered, “I’m thinking its about time I turned in, myself.”

John did not mention how Wat had just woken up from a long bout of sleep. Now John knew the extent of the damage to Wat’s body, but until he knew what medication had been prescribed, John could only rely on what his family members said was normal. 

John planned to visit Mik tomorrow. He would ask about his father’s treatment and see if there was any work available for him at the clinic.

John would not go back to the army, especially not now that he had seen how badly his family needed him. He would request an extended leave, which should be granted now that their border was adequately protected again.

John followed his father down the hallway. He made sure that Wat made it safely into his room, then continued down the hall. He pushed open the door of his old room. It was immediately apparent that Harry had been telling the truth; she had not expected him. 

Most of his furniture had been pushed to one side of the room, against a wall. The only object hat was where he had left it was the bed, though it was covered with all sorts of junk that Harry or Wat had tossed there and probably forgotten about. He was tired, but he needed to at least clear off the bed before he could sleep here. His rigid military training had him biting back a sigh before he realized he did not have to suppress himself so much anymore.

John figured there was no point in putting it off. First, he cleared the nightstand so that he could rest his candle there. There had been a lamp in John’s room, but it was not where it had used to be. John was not sure if that meant it had been moved into the mountain of items on the other side of the room or if it had been repurposed somewhere else in the house. 

Once he had light, then he began to move the items from the bed onto the floor. Some of it belonged to him, but most of it did not. When the bed was cleared and John had shaken the dust out of the linen, John crawled into the bed.

Tomorrow, he would make plans. He needed to give Harry space, figure out what he could do to help Wat, and find some way to contribute to the household until Harry was actually ready to sort out her feelings. John tried to quiet his mind and was eventually able to fall asleep.

The next morning, John woke with a jolt. For a moment he was sure he was in his bunk in the barracks, but then the muted light from the covered window reminded him that he was back home, in his childhood room. John considered it unfortunate that the window was mostly blocked by the pile of furniture. John had always had a fondness for the way the pre-dawn light had spilled in through his window. Thinking about it now made him nostalgic even though it was barely getting into the room.

By all rights, if Harry was sticking with the way their father had trained them, she should also be up or waking up soon. John suspected she would not be up for a while. She likely would need to sleep off whatever it was that she had drunk last night. It was a good thing that John had been sending all of his pay back home. He did not want to even think about what the state of the household would be like if he had not. 

John readied himself quickly, intending to head out to Mik’s clinic as soon as he could. He stopped by his father’s room to check on him. Wat, surprisingly, was awake. He and John greeted each other. John offered to make him breakfast, but Wat declined. He confessed he had lost much of his appetite during his forced sedentary period after his fall. John offered to talk to Mik about it, but Wat waved him off.

By the time that John left the house, the sun was rising and he knew that Harry was late. Their neighbors would also be waking up around now, and John could only hope that he would be able to make it to the clinic in time to talk to Mik before he got busy. For all he knew, Mik’s business could be slow, but he would rather not take any chances.

John soon made it to the clinic. Luckily, it was less than a mile away, though it could not have been an easy trip for Wat to make while still injured. John regarded the old office. Mik had updated it, planting flora up the walkway leading to the doors. Several trees lined the front of the building. John noticed that they were various fruit trees. Though some of the trees had ripe fruit, there did not seem to be much fruit that had fallen to the ground. 

‘Curious,’ John thought, as he walked past them.

John tried the clinic door, only to find that it was still locked. He knocked on the door. A few minutes passed before he heard the sound of the lock being undone. A drowsy Mik opened the door. It was clear that he had only just woken up. His eyes were barely open to slits and, although he was dressed, he still had his nightcap on. 

Mik’s eyes opened wider as he saw who had arrived, and John watched the man furiously rub the sleep from his eyes. 

“John!” Mik exclaimed when he could finally see clearly enough, “You’re back! Come in, my friend, come in!”

Mik clapped a hand on John’s shoulder and he followed Mik inside. Mik was as jovial as John had come to expect, though his youthful roundness had distributed evenly and he was proportionately fluffy now. John thought it was a good look on him. Mik seemed more exuberant than John thought any man had a right to be after just being rudely awoken by a caller, but John was glad to see it.

“Have you had breakfast, John?” Mik asked, glancing over at his friend. They were still about the same height, John realized, though he was a bit taller than the older man.

“I haven’t, yet,” John replied, watching Mik lock the clinic's front door again. 

“Well, come through to the kitchen and I can whip us up something quick,” Mik answered, ushering John through the clinic’s waiting room and down a hallway towards the back of the building. 

The building was bigger inside than it appeared on the outside, and John wondered if that was because of the layout of the building. He had been taught spatial maneuvers in the military and had some extracurricular experience with puzzles. John chuckled internally; he had never thought either of those would have any practical use once he had resumed civilian life.

The clinic kitchen was clean and small for the size of the building, though it was larger than the kitchen in John’s home. The counter appeared to be made from some sort of pale stone, and the brick oven was set into the wall, likely attached to a network that allowed it to heat the entire building during cold seasons.

John smiled a bit at his friend, who had been talking nonstop ever since he had let John inside. John knew the last decade must have changed his friend in some ways, though it was somewhat comforting to see that the man was still a chatterbox.

“There isn’t too much time before I should start expecting patients,” Mik chattered as he showed John to a small table and chairs in the corner of the room. “I’ll certainly have a minute to catch up with an old friend. Though, oh—”

Mik cut himself off and shot John a worried look. “This isn’t about your father, is it? I haven’t seen the old man in a while but the last time I did, he seemed to on the road to recovery. Did something happen?”

“No, no,” John was quick to reassure Mik. 

John did not even want to talk about something happening to Wat, lest some lingering spirit hear it and make it come true. John was not very superstitious, but he was well aware that some patients died while receiving medical care, and their spirits could be hanging around. He was not taking any chances.

“Oh, great,” Mik said, visibly relaxing. He returned to smearing jam on toast while he waited for the coffee to percolate. “How long have you been back?”

“Just got back last night, if you can believe it,” John said, watching Mik gather the necessary dishes. 

“And you came to see me?” Mik asked, cocking his head. “I’m flattered, John, though I’m also a bit suspicious.”

Mik placed the milk, lemon, and cream in the center of the small table, then retrieved the coffee kettle to set next to them. 

“Ah, well,” John said sheepishly, then held a knuckle between his teeth in a nervous habit. Mik laughed.

“Eat, eat!” Mik ordered John, as he handed a plate of cold sausage and toast. He retrieved a sealed tin from the counter and placed it on the table as well. “There’s some fruit in here, if you’d like it.”

John opened the tin and discovered that Mik’s version of “fruit” was actually pastries with fruit filling. John took one filled with a red, gelatinous substance that appeared to be preserves made from some sort of berry.

They caught up over breakfast. To John’s surprise, Mik had got a bit better at sharing the conversation and did not just chatter. He seemed to be genuinely interested in what John had done during his time away. Mik was still more than happy to talk at length about what running the clinic had been like after Dr. Vihaan had left, but he did pause for breath every now and again.

“So, what brings you here, John? I would have thought you would be out fishing already?” Mik asked as they cleared away their used dishes. 

“Actually, Harry and I have had a bit of a falling out. I’m honestly not sure I would be welcome aboard the family vessel right now,” John said, chuckling as if it was a joke. Contrary to his words, John was actually fairly certain Harry would refuse to speak to him, let alone sail with him right now. “I was hoping that I might be able to put my limited healing knowledge to use, if you’ve got any work available.”

Mik was silent after John’s statement, long enough that John looked over at his old friend to see if he was alright. Mik had paused in washing the dishes and looked troubled. John did not rush him since he was sure Mik would tell John what he was thinking sooner rather than later.

“The thing is, John…” Mik began haltingly, “I’m concerned. The clinic is very busy right now and I could definitely use the help. But, you were working here before and you left so abruptly. I don’t know if I feel comfortable depending on you like that again.”

John was sorry to see that he had made his friend worry like this. If he was reading through the lines correctly, it seemed that he had also disappointed Mik and even possibly Dr. Vihaan, though John had not been an official apprentice. 

“I understand your concerns, Mik.” John comforted his friend. He could tell that Mik was uncomfortable voicing his doubts to him, but John felt that Mik was being quite fair. If any soldier had acted the way John had when he had left—or “run away” as Harry had put it—John would not even have considered taking them back. They would have faced all of the consequences due a deserter and, unlike Mik, John would not have felt guilty about telling the perpetrator the sentence to his or her face. Still…

“That was when I was 17 though, Mik. I’m a militia captain now—I definitely know what responsibility is. Not to mention, I’ve become much better at predicting the consequences of my actions. You can trust me.” John cajoled. Mik looked dubious but nodded. John knew that Mik probably trusted him as a friend without a doubt, but as an employee for Mik’s business, one who had let the man down before, John had something to prove.

“I’d love to have you around, John, but you can’t just disappear like you did before. I’m currently looking for an apprentice, someone I can train up in medicine as a profession. I do want to help you, but I can’t give that position away lightly. It holds certain expectations.” Mik conceded, hands clasped in front of him. He relayed the information while looking John in the eye, and John could tell Mik was trying to convey how important the matter was to him.

“To be fair, I would not want to take the apprentice position. I don’t want to bring up bad experiences, but I would rather resume the pseudo-assistant role that I had when I worked here last, if possible. I do expect Harry will forgive me at some point, and I’d like to go back into the family business.” John said.

Contrary to what John had expected, Mik actually looked relieved at John’s reply. “Hiring you as an assistant would be ideal for me, though I would like your assurance that you’ll give me at least a few days’ notice when you decide you’re going back to fishing. That way, I can get your help with the influx of cholera patients and have more time to continue research on my cure. And if you’re not my apprentice, then I can continue looking for one who can stay on long term.”

John smiled, relieved that they had found some common accord. “So, you’ll take me on? I should mention that I would like to keep my father near during the day, just to keep an eye out for his needs. Would that be alright?”

Mik smiled, clearly also relieved that they had come to some agreement. He had obviously found it difficult to deny his friend. “That’s absolutely fine, John. Though I would advise him not to get too close to the patients. A lot of them seem to have cholera-like symptoms, but the illness behaves more like a contagion. If it was truly cholera, people could not catch it from another person, but this—”

“It’s honestly fascinating work,” John cut his friend off before he could repeat everything he had told him about his research. John had heard quite a bit of it over breakfast and, while he did find it somewhat interesting, he was not so interested as to listen to Mik raving about it twice within an hour.

John did not need to cut Mik off, it turned out. There was knock at the kitchen window that made the doctor jump. He and John turned toward the noise.

There was a young woman outside of the window, standing at the side of the building and peering in at them. Her dark blonde hair was pulled into a sensible tail at the back of her head and she was dressed in drab dark brown clothes. When Mik saw her, he released an exasperated noise.

“I don’t have time for this!” Mik said, clearly irritated, though he began drying his wet hands on a nearby towel.

“Your mom said you promised!” The woman’s voice was deeper than her youthful face belied, and John followed the conversation with interest.

“Fine, I know, yes, fine!” Mik huffed. 

The woman disappeared from the window and there was a peculiar sound as she went toward the back of the building, out of John’s sight.

John remembered now that although Mik was a fairly friendly fellow, he could be high-strung and whiny at times. That side of Mik usually came out when Mik was forced to do something he did not like, though it was many times worse if his mother had been the one to force him into it.

“Your mom is still active, I see,” John teased. Mik responded by shooting John a humorless, impatient look.

“More than,” Mik conceded.

Mik walked even further toward the rear of the building and beckoned John to follow. When Mik opened the back door, the young woman was there. She began striding confidently into the clinic as soon as Mik opened the door. Now that John could see her fully, he saw that she had a quiver of arrows on her back and a bow secured by a strap. She pulled a sled of freshly killed animals into the clinic behind her.

“This is my cousin, Sarah,” Mik said, waving Sarah and the sled by so that he could lock the door behind her. “Sarah, this is my old friend and new assistant, John, son of Wat.”

John offered to help with the sled and only received an appraising once-over and a curt denial. They followed Mik into an empty room near the back of the clinic, where Sarah began to unload the meat. 

“I’ve met Wat. I like Wat,” Sarah said, then continued after a pause, “Your sister is something else, though. Can you hear me alright?”

John gave Sarah a wan smile, “Yes.”

“Good,” Sarah responded as Mik dragged a doe, the largest animal in the pile, onto the metal hook in front of him.

John leaned over to Mik with a questioning look.

Mik’s reply was as drab as his expression, “I’m her butcher. I butcher her kills so that she can take them to market.”

“I don’t go to market,” Sarah clarified, moving beside Mik to hang a few rabbits on smaller hooks and begin skinning the animals. “I just bring the meant to an old friend of my dad’s. He’s a merchant there, so he sells the meat for me and gives me a portion of the profit.”

“Why do you look so unhappy about that?” John asked. Both Mik and Sarah looked over to John, though Mik looked away, disgruntled, when he saw that John was not addressing him.

Sarah assessed John again, then shrugged and turned back to her work. Nothing in her voice gave away the annoyance that had shown on her face. “I think he might be cheating me.”

“Why don’t you get someone else to sell it for you, then,” John asked, curious. “You said you knew my father.”

“Or stop bringing anything to market at all!” Mik huffily suggested as he began bleeding the animals. Sarah ignored Mik.

“I like Wat, but your sister is crazy.” Sarah replied bluntly, “And I just met you. I wouldn’t trust you not to cheat me, either.”

John mentally commended Sarah for being refreshingly straightforward, even if he was not sure whether he actually liked her personality.

Between both Sarah and Mik, the game from Sarah’s hunt were skinned and butchered in a remarkable short time. Sarah loaded the meat back onto her sled as Mik grabbed John’s arm and tugged him out of the room.

“Bye, Sarah,” Mik called over his shoulder, to which John did not hear a reply.

“And good riddance,” Mik added when they had gone further down the hallway. “I hate butchering. I’m a doctor specializing in illness and disease for goodness’ sakes. I know it’s too bad that there aren’t any butchers in the district, but what’s that got to do with me, huh? Why doesn’t she just move somewhere else, then?” 

John considered silence might be the better part of valor in this situation. He held his tongue as Mik continued ranting.

“I’ve got enough on my hands with the outbreak, I’m telling you! And all of my research… there just aren’t enough hours in the day, John.” Mik turned into a room, seeming to finally run out of steam for his rant. 

John was surprised to see they had just entered was a washroom with multiple smocks in it like the one Mik was wearing. They were all lined up neatly on the shelves that had been set into the wall. Mik removed his smock and tossed it haphazardly into a corner. He turned and began to wash his hands and arms in the basin.

“I really am glad to have you on board, John,” Mik repeated, looking away from where he was washing himself. “You should wash up, too, and grab one of these for yourself.”

Mik turned away from the basin and yanked a smock off of the top of a stack. John followed suit, tying it around himself by using his vague muscle memory of when he had worked in the clinic previously.

“Are you staying here? I’ve got rooms to spare and it might be convenient. You could sleep in a little longer since you wouldn’t have to walk,” Mik said, trying to persuade him.

“I don’t know.” John replied, considering Mik’s offer. “It might help with Harry’s temper, but I came home to help my father. I don’t know how I would do that if I didn’t come home to check on him at the end of the day.”

“Well,” Mik said, shrugging as he went to unlock the clinic doors to allow the general public in. “As I said, I’ve got a few extra rooms. Just let me know what you decide.”

John nodded and followed. He would think about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized that I used the "secret of your birth" trope multiple times in this story. It's weird because it isn't a trope I normally employ or particularly enjoy, but whatever lol.
> 
> Don't worry about Sarah. She loves dead animals and not much else, lmao. She will not be making a play for John.


End file.
